


Hot Coffee

by Kithri, Kitty (Tamoline)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-04
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-22 11:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 36
Words: 191,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/912470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kithri/pseuds/Kithri, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tamoline/pseuds/Kitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Working in a coffee shop can be more than little insane, especially when you need the money to make ends meet, you have problems standing up for yourself and your boss has an ongoing feud with one of the regular customers.</p><p>Really, the last thing you need is to actually start *liking* the customer in question.</p><p>(in response to a prompt <a href="http://girlgay.dreamwidth.org/187919.html#comments">here</a>:<br/>Game of Thrones, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen, coffeeshop AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

I smile as I hand the cardboard cup to the waiting customer. I've been practicing that smile, dutifully staring at myself in the mirror until it looks...

("...a *little* less like a rictus of terror, Stark; come on, come on, the customers don't bite. Mostly.")

Bright. Cheerful. Professional.

"One extra-large double-shot mocha with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles," I say. The customer mutters something that could be 'thanks', practically snatching the syrupy confection -- more sugar than coffee -- out of my hand as she clacks away on five-inch heels, strides shortened by the tightly-fitted pencil skirt she's wearing.

Let's see. Grey skirt with matching jacket. Cream blouse, unbuttoned enough to show just a hint of cleavage, but not so much as to be unprofessional. Discreet jewellery, expertly applied make-up. And, of course, the shoes. Clearly business battle-dress. No challenge there.

Okay, what about the rest of it?

Nicotine stains on her fingers. Pale skin. A tremor to her hand, making her clumsy when she grabbed for the coffee. Eyes a little puffy and bloodshot behind the dark glasses she didn't take off when she came through the door. Attention a million miles away from here and now, and whatever she's thinking about, it's not making her happy.

I think that's enough to work with.

"Daydreaming, Sansa?"

The voice breaks into my thoughts, making me jump a little and spin round. I relax a little when I see it's just Shae. She's leaning against the counter as she neatly folds a stack of tea-towels, smiling fondly at me.

I smile back at her, genuinely this time. Shae was a real lifesaver when I started here at Hot Coffee. She really took me under her wing. I swear she must have stopped me from making at least a hundred stupid mistakes. And that was just in the first week. 

"Just thinking," I say softly.

Shae's smile turns mischievous.

"Playing your game again?"

I duck my head a little, vainly trying to hide the sudden flush of embarrassment that's undoubtedly staining my cheeks.

"Maybe," I admit. (I hope she doesn't think badly of me.)

Shae chuckles. It's not a malicious sound, but I feel my shoulders tense instinctively for a moment before I force myself to relax, to stand up straight and meet her gaze.

("You're such a little mouse, Sansa. When you hunch over like that, it looks like you're about to hibernate.")

"You don't need to be embarrassed about it," Shae says, and there's a look in her eyes, like she knows exactly what was going through my head. I shrug a little awkwardly and she lays a hand on my arm in wordless comfort. It... helps. (We're still friends!) Apparently satisfied that I'm not about to melt into a small puddle of shame at her feet, she goes back to folding tea-towels. "So, what's her story?"

That's my game. I like to make up stories about people. Who they are, what they're doing, where they're going. Maybe it is a little childish for an eighteen year-old girl -- woman -- but I don't care. It's fun.

And, anyway, my Psychology of Aging lecturer says some studies have suggested that 'maintaining an active imagination throughout one's life can help to stave off dementia and loss of memory in old age.'

So there.

I consider my observations, piecing them together to form a narrative. And then I immediately second-guess myself, toning down some of the weirder elements to make it -- and me -- seem a little less strange. (It isn't nearly as interesting, of course, but I guess you can't have everything.)

"She works in advertising. Her team is putting together a huge, important bid. It's make or break for her company, which is struggling financially. But the other party moved up the presentation at short notice, so she's been pulling all-nighters to get it done. She's practically mainlining coffee at the moment, and she's started smoking again. She tells herself she'll quit when this is over, but she knows she'll only start again the next time she's under that kind of stress." I pause for breath, giving Shae a small smile. "How's that?"

She makes a noncommittal noise. "It's okay, I suppose," she drawls. Her faint accent lends the words a touch of the exotic. (I love listening to her speak.)

"Just okay?"

She shrugs gracefully. (I've never met anyone who shrugged gracefully before. But she does everything gracefully. Even fold tea-towels. I wonder if that's something she could teach me, perhaps. I'd love to be that graceful.)

"It's a little... ordinary... isn't it? You can do better than ordinary."

That sounds like a challenge.

Suddenly, all traces of self-consciousness disappear as if they never even existed. (Oh, if only.)

Alright, fine. Let's try the original version.

"How about this, then? She does work in advertising, but that's not relevant to this story. She took a new lover recently, and she's been spending a lot of time with him. A lot of late nights. She thinks that's why she feels so tired all the time lately, but that's not it."

"No?"

"No. It's also not the reason why she's taken up smoking again; why her nicotine cravings have come back with a vengeance after having quit years ago. But those things are connected."

"Ah, a mystery," Shae murmurs. "Now you have my attention."

"Her new lover is a vampire. He's been feeding on her, and more. Those cravings she's feeling, they're not for nicotine." I make my voice deep and ominous. (I feel a pang as I realise I'm inadvertently imitating my father.) "And she's just starting to realise something's wrong..." I let those words hang for a moment, then raise my eyebrows. "How do you like that version?"

"Better, much better," she says. "Although I do hope her lover doesn't sparkle in sunlight."

"No, of course not," I hasten to reassure her. (Even if, in the privacy of my own mind, I don't think that would be so terrible.) "I was thinking old school, like Rice or Brite or Hamilton."

Shae sighs, lifting her eyes heavenward. "Sometimes I forget how young you are," she murmurs. She makes it sound kind, fond even. Not like a criticism. That goes some way towards heading off my sudden flare of defensiveness.

Even so.

"You're not that much older than I am," I can't help retorting.

She's, what? Early twenties? Mid-twenties at the most. Not that she'll ever tell me her exact age. Or anything much about her past. It's frustrating, but I kind of like the fact that she has an air of mystery about her. It's romantic.

And it means I'm free to make up my own stories about who she really is and where she comes from.

Maybe she's a witch. Maybe she met a faerie prince under the pale moonlight, and the two of them fell hopelessly in love. But maybe he was sworn to marry another, and so his cruel father laid a terrible curse upon Shae. Now, she's doomed to live a life without magic. A life without her love. A life of endless drudgery, where she has only fleeting, broken memories of the wonders she used to know. Until the curse is broken...

(Alright, I admit it. I love tales of the supernatural. And I'm also a bit of a sucker for gothic romance. Anything that combines the two is pretty much catnip to me.)

Putting the stack of tea-towels to one side, Shae leans on the counter-top next to me, studying me thoughtfully. "You know, you should write down some of your stories. You could post them online for people to read."

I'm already shaking my head. I don't even have to think about it.

"Oh, they're just silly things. Childish, really. I'm sure no one would actually read them."

"I would read them."

I start to duck my head again, then consciously make myself stop. (School -- and everyone there -- might be behind me now, but some habits are hard to break. No matter how hard I try.)

"Maybe make them a little less florid, though."

And I'm back to blushing uncomfortably.

"Don't you two have work to do?"

I jump half out of my skin, of course. Shae spins around quickly, but her natural grace makes her look like a ballerina. I probably just look like a shocked rabbit.

Asha emerges from the storeroom, glowering at the pair of us like she's just caught us with our hands in the till. She's casually hefting a sack of coffee beans on one shoulder, moving like it barely weighs a thing. (It always surprises me how strong she is, given her size. Not that she's petite or anything. I mean, she's shorter than I am, but so are a lot of people, Shae included. But she's only a little broader-framed than me. Not exactly built like a brick... outhouse.)

She sets the sack down on the counter and starts refilling the grinder with fresh beans, the aroma of them wafting deliciously through the air. I love that smell. Honestly, it's one of the reasons I applied for this job in the first place. Not the main reason, or even in the top three, but it was definitely on the list. (The top three reasons were, of course: money, money and money. A student loan only stretches so far and, much though she'd dearly love to, Mother isn't really in a position to help me out.)

I scurry over to help Asha fill the grinder, oddly pleased when she gives a wordless grunt of approval. (She can be very expressive sometimes, even without needing to resort using to actual words.)

Shae stays exactly where she is, lounging against the counter like she owns the place. Like she hasn't a care in the world. I can't help but be impressed by her bravery, even though my stomach twists a little with worry for her. I'm not ashamed to admit that Asha scares me a little. And then there's the fact that she's the assistant manager here.

I know Shae needs this job -- she's confided in me that much, at least -- so why does she take every opportunity she can to try to provoke Asha?

Take now, for example. That look she's giving Asha is nothing short of insouciant.

"There are no customers," Shae points out. "The morning rush is over and the students are either still in bed or at lectures."

Asha snorts, clearly less than impressed with Shae and her attitude. That's pretty normal for her, though. She doesn't seem to think much of anyone or anything, me included.

"Better not let the boss catch you lazing around," she says acidly. "He'd probably threaten you with a spanking."

I can't help a shudder. Mr Baelish seems nice enough, and he's certainly very friendly, but, well, he can be a little... unsettling. And that does sound like something he'd say, smiling that little smile of his to show that it's all a joke, that it's all in good fun.

Except it's not really all that funny.

Anyway, he's not here today. He's off at some management meeting, leaving Asha in charge. Which isn't really any different to when he is around, I suppose. 

Shae snorts. "He could try," she says, and there's a dangerous edge to her voice that she rarely allows herself to express. "I think that he would regret the attempt."

Much to my surprise, Asha grins, the expression fierce, maybe even predatory. "I'd almost like to see that," she says, cheerfully. "But I probably shouldn't be encouraging insubordination among the crew."

Shae rolls her eyes. "Aye-aye, *Captain*," she says, infusing the title with a truly impressive amount of sarcasm. She straightens and grabs a cloth from its hook. "I will wipe down the already-clean tables." And she flounces off to do just that.

She does manage quite an impressive flounce when she puts her mind to it.

Asha is scowling after her, the grin wiped away, her face now looking like the sky before a storm.

"Um," I say, tentatively, struggling not to flinch when she turns her hawklike gaze on me. "How's the ship coming along?" I blurt out.

She stares at me for a long moment while I quail inside a little, but then her face relaxes from its scowl and she nods. Enthusiasm animates her features as she seals the sack of beans and stows it carefully away. We start restocking the syrups, sprinkles and marshmallows.

"We're making good progress," she says. "We were having some problems with the timbering, but that turned out to be because we'd been sent a duff batch of wood. But I ripped the supplier a new arsehole and he replaced it free of charge." She sniffs disparagingly. "As well he should. He's lucky I didn't report him to Trading Standards."

I nod agreeably. It seems appropriate at this juncture.

"Of course," she continues. "If it was up to me, we'd cut and treat our own wood, but apparently there are laws against just grabbing an axe and chopping down an oak tree or two. Or three. Anyway, we're going to..."

Her words wash over me, sprinkled with technical jargon I don't have a hope of understanding. But I understand enough to get the gist of it, and I'm quite impressed. It takes a certain amount of determination to build a Viking longship from scratch, using as close to the original materials and techniques as possible. I'm almost as impressed by the fact that she's managed to assemble a motley group of people who not only share her ambition, but are willing to travel down to the coast with her one weekend in four to work on making it happen.

Although, I guess being a member of the Living History society probably made it easier to find like-minded souls.

"...hoping to have the Hafgufa sea-worthy by the summer after next," she finishes, proudly.

"The Hafgufa?" I repeat, trying to pronounce it the way she did. It sounds a little like I'm clearing phlegm from my throat.

"Big sea monster. Think Kraken."

I can practically hear the capital letter.

"Oh." I consider that a moment as we return the excess stock to the storeroom. "It's a good name."

"*I* think so."

"Standing around chatting, Asha? Don't you have work to do?"

Shae's amusement is almost palpable as she leans against the doorframe, raising one eyebrow. Asha turns on her with a face like thunder. I search in vain for something to say, for a way to calm the situation down before the hostility between them boils over, automatically taking a step back.

(...the tension in the air, like a promise of violence, of ugliness to come...)

I feel my gut tighten, making me want to hunch in on myself, to wrap my arms around my middle and curl up in a little ball.

I... don't deal well with confrontation, even when I'm not directly involved.

Why oh why can't people just get along?

I see Shae glance over at me as I freeze, torn between conflicting urges to intervene and to flee far away from here. Something flickers across her face, there and gone far too quickly for me to figure out what it means. Then she grits her teeth and sighs, conspicuously looking at her watch.

"It's time for my break, anyway," she says. "I'm sure the two of you can hold the fort without me for a few minutes."

Asha looks briefly puzzled, then nods, guardedly. "Don't take too long," she says.

Shae rolls her eyes. "I won't, don't worry." She takes off her apron and hangs it on its peg, and retrieves her handbag from the storeroom. (It does double duty as a place for us to stash our things while we're working.) "Do you want anything from the shops?"

She's looking at me, but Asha answers before my throat unlocks enough for me to speak.

"No. Thank you."

"Sansa?" Shae prompts.

"No, I'm fine thanks," I say, managing to speak more or less normally.

"Then I'll see you soon." Giving me a smile and a wave -- and ignoring Asha completely -- she heads out of the shop.

Asha turns to me, scowling, and I brace myself for I don't know what, but then, as if in answer to all my prayers, I hear the ping that signals the coffee shop door opening.

A customer?

Asha glances over towards the door, then immediately ducks back into the storeroom.

"Great," she mutters quietly; viciously. "Just what this day needed. A visit from the bloody Dragon." I start to ask what she means, but my question turns into a squeak as she grabs my arm and unceremoniously propels out of the storeroom. "You can deal with her," she whispers brusquely. "I don't have the energy or the patience for her bullshit right now, and I definitely don't want to have to explain to upper management why I felt the need to bodily throw a customer out of the shop."

"But-"

"You'll be fine," she says, decisively. Unfortunately, she then spoils the effect by adding: "Good luck."

The next thing I know, I'm standing out there on my own and Asha is nowhere to be seen.

What on earth is *wrong* with her?

Still, there's no time to worry about that now. I have a customer to deal with. Putting on my smile like a mask, I swipe my access card to log into the till and launch into my little rote greeting.

"Good afternoon and welcome to Hot Coffee. What can I get for you today?"

I look up, and find myself staring into the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Much brighter than the muddy blue-grey I see every time I look in the mirror. They seem like they should sparkle in the light, like gemstones, and I'm immediately struck by a wave of raw envy. 

As well as inspiration for my inner writer.

When I can tear myself away from her eyes, I'm somehow unsurprised to realise that the rest of her is just as perfect. Her skin is tanned and smooth, with no hint of a spot or blemish on her face, and her lips are full and pink. One of her dark eyebrows -- both neatly shaped -- arches inquisitively beneath her incongruously blonde fall of hair.

She's beautiful.

(Unlike me.)

Belatedly, I realise that she's speaking and, flushing, I make myself focus.

(Even her voice is beautiful. Commanding and clear, practically brimming with confidence.) 

(I'm so very, very jealous.)

"You're new," she states, sounding for all the world like a queen making a pronouncement.

"Sorry," I say instinctively, then wish with all my heart that I could bite the word back. But I can't, so I just continue gamely onwards. "I mean, I suppose so. I'm the newest member of staff here, anyway. But I've been working here for about four weeks now."

I realise that I'm starting to babble and make myself stop. I take a deep, calming breath.

"Hmm," the customer says, studying me. I can't help feeling uncomfortably like she can see right through me, right to the scared little girl hiding behind my adult facade. I have to fight not to fidget under her gaze. "Your name is..." Her eyes flick down to my name badge. "Sansa?"

"Sansa Stark," I confirm, feeling like I should curtsey or something. "And you are...?"

"Daenerys Targaryen. Pleased to meet you."

Such an unusual name. Lovely, though. (Like her.) I wonder where it's from.

"Pleased to meet you, too," I echo faintly. "Are... Are you a regular customer here?"

"I am." She nods, and then frowns. "Although, I have occasionally been less than satisfied with the coffee here recently." Her gaze sharpens, and even though I'm taller than she is, I suddenly feel like I'm about an inch high. "Perhaps you'll do better."

"I can certainly try!" I'm aiming for cheerful and professional. I think I hit somewhere south of manic. Oh well. "What would you like?"

"I'd like a double-shot espresso macchiato, please." Okay, that doesn't sound too bad. But she's not finished yet. "Made with one shot of hot milk, not foam, and poured Italian style, not American. With one shot of Belgian dark chocolate syrup and two of peppermint."

Oh. That's... Oh.

It's all starting to make sense.

"Just bear with me a moment..." I fumble my way around the till, figuring out the right combination of buttons more by guesswork than anything else. At least, I assume it's the right combination. Certainly, the customer -- Daenerys -- doesn't seem to bat an eye when I repeat the total. She hands over a loyalty card with her money, so I guess she really is a regular.

(I wonder why I've never seen her before. I certainly wouldn't have forgotten her.)

Right. Now for the hard part.

"I'll just get started on your drink. You can take a seat if you want, and I'll bring it over when I'm done."

"That's alright, I'm happy to wait. Besides, this way I get to see if you do it right."

No pressure, then.

I take a moment to go through the process in my mind, and then retrieve everything I'm going to need, laying it out neatly on the counter.

Okay, I can do this. I can. Except... What does 'Italian style' mean? Should I try to guess? Or should I ask her? I waver for a moment or two, then decide to bite the bullet.

"Excuse me?"

"Yes?"

"I haven't made this drink before, and I want to be sure I get it right, so could you please tell me: how do I pour it Italian style?"

She frowns for a moment, eyes flickering towards the storeroom, before she looks back at me, her expression turning into a smile. I find myself standing up a little straighter, basking in its glow.

"It means that you pour the milk into the espresso, rather than the other way around. Everything else is as it sounds, but please ask if you're not certain about anything else. I'm a firm believer in asking questions."

"I will." Her smile is oddly infectious. I wonder if I look as dazed as I feel. "Thank you."

Right. Here we go. Start the milk heating. Dispense and tamp the espresso grounds. Lock the head in place on the machine and start the drip. Pour the syrups into the cup. Wait for the espresso. Measure and pour the shots. Check the milk temperature. When it's ready, measure and pour. Remember at the last minute not to add the foam. Add the final flourish: an abstract design on the surface drawn using the tiniest dribble of chocolate syrup.

And... done.

"One double-shot espresso macchiato, made with hot milk, poured Italian style, with Belgian dark chocolate and peppermint syrup. I hope it's to your liking."

"Thank you." She takes a sip. I hold my breath as she savours it for a moment or two, looking thoughtful. Please let her like it. Please let her- "Well done!" she says, beaming. "Very good for a first attempt. I see I'll have to make sure to have you serve me in future."

"I'll be here!" I say, wincing internally at how much of a ninny I sound.

Daenerys nods at me and ensconces herself at one of the tables, pulling out a laptop and a couple of thick books. I try not to watch her too obviously as I clear up the work area, pretty much carrying out the task on auto-pilot. In almost no time at all, she seems to lose herself in whatever she's working on. I wonder what that is...

"Well, fuck me sideways." Asha's voice comes from behind me, her tone ripe with disbelief. Her Orcadian accent is stronger than usual, but I don't think she'd thank me for pointing it out, so I don't. I turn to face her and find that she's looking at me like I've grown a second head. "That's something I never thought I'd see. Someone's finally soothed the savage beast." Her eyes narrow and she looks me up and down appraisingly. "You've been holding out on us, Stark. Seems you've got hidden talents."

I shrug helplessly, not really knowing what to say. Daenerys really doesn't seem very dragon-like. A little intimidating at first, perhaps, but she seems friendly enough. So, why on earth is Asha reacting the way she is?

There has to be a story there.

And I'm going to find out what it is.


	2. Chapter 2

Unfortunately, I'm going to have to wait a while before I have the chance to try to satisfy my curiosity. I don't really want to ask Asha directly, and by the time Shae returns customers are starting to trickle and then flood in. The lunchtime rush seems to have commenced a little sooner than expected, and we’re pretty much run off our feet.

I recognise some of the customers as regulars, but we also seem to have acquired a small gaggle of tourists. From the snatches of conversation I overhear, the tourists are mostly Americans, and are thrilled beyond belief that they're actually right in the middle of 'Robin Hood Country'. They're currently between sights at the moment and eager for caffeine and a sit down, not necessarily in that order. They descend upon the low sofas in the corner as if they've found paradise itself, sinking into the soft cushions with weary sighs and muttered complaints about 'deadly hills'.

(I have to suppress a smile at that. Nottingham might have the odd mild slope or two, but compared to my native Sheffield it's practically as flat as a pancake. If they want to see real hills, they should try some of the walking tours near Winterfell sometime.)

"Is that smile for me?"

Startled out of my thoughts, I look up into a pair of dancing brown eyes, into white teeth standing out against olive skin as the customer leans against the counter, grinning widely at me.

"Oh, um, hi Reza." My cheeks heat, either at being caught wool-gathering, or because he's flustered me again. "I haven't started your drink yet." I finish the one I'm currently making, and place it on the counter. "Large latte for Natasha," I call out. Natasha snags her drink, nodding at me in thanks as she continues to talk animatedly on her phone.

(In my head, Natasha -- another one of our regulars -- used to be a spy, first for the Russian government and then freelance, before a rogue werewolf pack killed the rest of her team during a job gone horribly, horribly wrong. Now, she hunts monsters, both for revenge and because she feels it needs to be done.)

"Take your time," Reza says cheerfully. "I'm not in a hurry." I give him a small smile, but don't say anything. I never know what to say to him. Not that it ever seems to deter him from talking to me. "I didn't expect to see you here today," he says, after a moment or two. "Don't you usually have lectures on Tuesdays?"

"Labs," I say. "But my group finished our experiment a week early."

Well, technically we finished on time. The course tutor allowed an extra week, 'just in case'. In theory, I could be using this time to get a head start on the write-up. Which I was totally going to do, in fact, but then Asha called me.

"So you decided to spend an extra day working here?" He shakes his head, laughing a little. "Man, you must really love this place. If I had an unexpected day off, the last thing I'd do is spend it working."

"Ygritte called in sick," I say, my voice sounding a little more defensive than I'd like. "Asha asked me to cover her shift."

I do feel a little guilty about working when I should be *working*, but, well, I do need the money. And I brought my laptop with me, so in theory I can work on my report during the quiet periods. In theory.

"Ygritte was at a music festival this weekend, wasn't she?" he asks, knowingly.

"Yes," I say, looking around to see if Asha is within earshot. Luckily she isn't. Not that she doesn't already strongly suspect that Ygritte's 'illness' is a combination of 'sleep deprived and extremely hung over,' but there's no point in reminding her.

And I for one have no intention of telling her that Ygritte hasn't even made it back to Nottingham yet.

"So," I say brightly, searching for a way to change the subject before I say something I shouldn't. "You had an archery competition this weekend, didn't you?"

He nods, starting to say something, but I interrupt him before he can actually speak.

"Hold on a moment, sorry," I say, setting another completed drink on the counter. "Medium mocha for Makeda," I call out.

The woman who collects it isn't a regular, I think, but she looks vaguely familiar. I think I might have seen her in a couple of my lectures.

"Thank you," she says. I don't think she recognises me.

"You're welcome." I start on Reza's coffee now, glancing up at him. "Sorry about that. How did the competition go?"

"Great, thanks for asking." His smile broadens. "We came in second overall. The Brummies won, but it was a close thing. And they did have the home range advantage." He shrugs. "We had some pretty respectable scores, though." He looks down modestly, the effect only slightly spoiled when he looks up again eagerly at me, sneaking a glance through eyelashes that I swear are longer than mine. "I placed first in the men's category."

"Well done!" I say.

"Thank you." If his smile got any brighter, I might need sunglasses. He always seems so cheerful. "You know, we're hosting a competition at Nottingham this weekend. One o' clock Saturday afternoon, in the sports centre. Just a friendly, but still. You could come and watch, if you want. Cheer the home team."

"Maybe I will," I say noncommittally. It could be fun, I guess. Maybe. If I'm not busy doing coursework, or pulling a shift here. "Here's your coffee."

"Cheers." He accepts the cardboard cup and taking a sip. "Tastes good."

"Glad you like it." I smile at him and start on the next order, expecting him to bid me goodbye and head on out. He did order his coffee 'to go,' after all. But he doesn't show any particular inclination to leave.

"Have you ever thought about giving archery a go?"

I just about manage not to pull a face.

"Not really. I don't think it's for me." Which is an understatement and a half, really.

"How do you know unless you try?" He looks me up and down, and I have to fight the urge to shift uncomfortably under his scrutiny. "I bet you could draw a twenty-eight pound bow, although you might want to start with a twenty-six, just to get the hang of it."

"Um, I don't think..."

"There are quite a few newbies at the moment, so it's actually a pretty good time to start. And everyone's really friendly. We usually hang out a bit after practice, and we have semi-regular movie nights. Generally we watch something with lots of crap archery so we can take the piss out of it." He winces. "Okay, that sounds really geeky. But it's fun. Really. And now I'm just making a fool of myself, aren't I?" He grins ruefully, and I can't help grinning back at him.

"You're doing fine. I'm just... I don't think I'd make a very good archer." I sigh, feeling my grin wilt around the edges. "I'm not very strong."

"That's what the lighter bows are for," he says, like that solves everything. "Look, I realise I'm doing a crappy job of selling it, but archery is fun. I certainly enjoy it, which I guess you've probably realised by the way I jabber on and on about it given half a chance. How do you know you don't like it, unless you give it a try?"

"Well..." No, I'm sure. Arya would jump at the chance of course, but I am most definitely not my sister.

"If you do give it a go and still don't like it, well, at least then you'll know for certain," he continues earnestly. "And all you'll have lost is time. But you never know, you might gain a new hobby."

And the opportunity to humiliate myself in new and mortifying ways in front of a group of strangers trying out something I really am ninety-nine point nine per cent certain I'll not only hate but also utterly suck at. No, I'm still not seeing the benefit. 

So why can't I just *say* that?

But "I don't know..." is what actually comes out of my mouth.

"If you try it and don't like it, I promise I'll stop bothering you about it. Scout's honour." He holds up his free hand in a gesture that I assume is supposed to be a scout's salute.

"I... think a scout's salute is supposed to use three fingers, not two," I say softly. As well as keep the fingers together. He's actually making a victory sign.

"Oh." He lets his hand drop to his side. "Well, I was never actually a very good boy scout. I was only a member for about a week." He smiles self-deprecatingly, his eyes twinkling so I can't help but return his smile.

I can't quite figure Reza out. Sometimes he seems so smooth, so confident, that I can't help wondering why he even talks to me. Other times he's, well, like this. (Like me. Awkward and flustered) Maybe that's why I keep changing my mind about his story. Now I'm thinking... He was stolen away by the Fae as a child. He lived in one of their Courts for a while, but recently managed to escape and make his way back to the mortal realm. Except he's been changed by his time with the Fae, and now he's finding it hard to adjust...

"So? Have I persuaded you? Are you going to come along to a practice session?"

I start guiltily, hoping he didn't notice that my attention was wandering. Maybe he thinks I was just considering his words.

"Umm..." No. Just say it. It's easy: one tiny little word. No. Be polite, yet firm. You can do it. He won't be offended. (He won't be angry.) I think. No. Just like that. Easy-peasy. "Okay."

"You will?" Maybe it's just my imagination, but I think he looks a little... surprised? "Great! That’s... great. So, tomorrow?"

"I can't tomorrow." I shrug apologetically. "Working here, I'm afraid."

"Oh. Well, next week then. It'll be fun, you'll see."

I could say I'm busy then, or that I'm working; either of which could quite well be true, if I want it to be. But, with a feeling of foreboding congealing in my chest, I already know how this is going to be.

"Sure."

"Great! That's probably for the best anyway. I can introduce you to the guys after the meet this weekend."

Wonderful. So, instead of humiliating myself in front of complete strangers, I'll be humiliating myself in front of people I've been vaguely introduced to once.

I suppose it doesn't make that much difference in the grand scheme of things.

"Sounds good," I say distantly, even though it sounds like anything but. Terrifying might be a more apt word, but I doubt it's one that Reza wants to hear.

I try and push away the panic fluttering around the edges of my mind, focusing on the task at hand. It's actually kind of soothing. Hectic, certainly, but once I settle into the rhythm of it there's something almost Zen about steadily working my way through the list of orders.

Even if it doesn't actually seem to shrink.

"Anyway," Reza says. "You're really busy, and I need to get going. I guess I'll see you on Saturday, if not before." He flashes a brilliant smile over his shoulder as he turns and walks away. "Bye, Sansa. It was nice talking with you."

"Bye," I say, a little distractedly.

So, it looks like I'm going to try archery.

Yay.

 

In between making drink after drink after drink, I manage to steal the occasional glance over at Daenerys, hoping for clues that will let me solve the mystery of Asha's uncharacteristic behaviour. She doesn't so much as lift her head from her work, busily typing away on her laptop and occasionally consulting one of the weighty tomes stacked next to it. I'm sure now that those are textbooks, although I can't decipher the titles from here. That means she must be a student, like me. I wonder what year she's in? I strongly doubt she's a fellow fresher.

There's a tiny frown between her eyebrows; eyebrows so much darker than her hair. It's clear now that she's not a natural blonde.

(Actually, it's... not the best dye job I've ever seen, to be honest. The colour's a little uneven, and her roots are showing pretty badly. I'm guessing she did it herself and hasn't bothered to maintain it. Even so, she somehow manages to make it work for her.)

(So very envious.)

"Sansa, are you alright?"

Shae's voice breaks through my reverie, and I give myself a mental shake, glancing over at her before continuing with the task at hand. Two white Americanos, one caramel latte, one double-shot Mocha without whipped cream, one peppermint hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, and one Earl Grey tea. (Hot, I mentally append, hearing the word in the inimitable tones of Sir Patrick Stewart.) 

"Yes, fine, thanks. Why?"

"You seem a little distracted."

"I'm just concentrating." Well, thinking up a story. One involving dragons and...

I'll get to the rest later.

"Hmm." She sounds sceptical, but she leaves me to it.

Time passes in a blur of taking orders, making drinks and cleaning tables. I barely have time to catch my breath, let alone work on my lab write-up. But it's not so bad, and the tourists leave pretty good tips. This actually presents a bit of a problem -- apparently there isn't an official policy regarding that kind of thing. Shae wants to split it between the two of us, or 'the people who were actually working' as she puts it. Asha disagrees, vociferously. I just try and keep out of it. In the end, Asha makes the executive decision that the money will be donated to charity. Which sets off the next round of arguments.

Asha wants the Lifeboat Fund, Shae votes for Shelter and, when pressed about who I'm siding with, I tentatively suggest the NSPCC. Eventually, Shae proposes a round of rock, paper, scissors, and Asha agrees with bad grace. Especially when Shae wins. Asha says she'll talk to Mr Baelish about having a permanent charity jar in future. (Well, by 'talk to' I think she means she'll suggest it, and he'll agree if he knows what's good for him.) We can take turns picking the charity, perhaps on a weekly basis.

Eventually, the tourists bustle off, talking excitedly about an upcoming underground cave tour, and the only remaining customers are a handful of students, plus a shopper or two. And Daenerys. As my gaze flicks her way again, she gets to her feet and closes the lid of her laptop. Gathering up her cup and saucer, she strides purposefully over to the counter, where she sets them down and nods at Shae.

"Good afternoon," she says.

"Afternoon, Daenerys," Shae replies. She smiles professionally. "What'll it be this time?"

I'm almost surprised she doesn't just ask if Daenerys wants her usual.

"I'll have a chai latte with a single shot of espresso and a dash of cinnamon syrup, made with scalded milk, not steamed, poured Italian style and topped with a thin layer of foam, please."

Oh. That would be why.

Shae doesn't say anything as she rings up the order, but I see the way her eyes flick up slightly, as if she's about to roll her eyes but stops herself.

"Your drink will be ready shortly," she says, handing Daenerys back her loyalty card, change and receipt.

I give the table I'm cleaning one last swipe with the cloth and move on to the next one, only to stop in my tracks when Daenerys says:

"I'd like Sansa to make it, please." I instinctively turn around and find myself looking into her eyes again. "If that's alright?" she asks, smiling. I find myself smiling back.

"That's fine," I say.

Shae gives me a funny look as I head around the counter, but she moves out of my way. I've never heard of anyone asking for an espresso shot in chai before, but each to their own. I can see why Asha and Shae would dread her orders but, strangely, I find myself enjoying the challenge of it.

(Okay, maybe I am a little nervous. But only a little.)

I take it slowly, going over each step of the process in my head before I perform it. I wouldn't want to do this when the place is packed, but now, when I don't have to rush, it's really not too bad.

As before, I sketch an abstract design on the surface as a final flourish, handing the drink over with a smile.

"Enjoy!" I say.

Daenerys takes an evaluating sip. I find myself leaning forward a little, eager to hear her verdict.

"It's good," she says, smiling, and I'm surprised at how relieved I feel. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," I reply automatically. She nods companionably at me and returns to her table, losing herself in her work once more.

Feeling oddly happy, I return to my cleaning.

 

When Daenerys leaves -- with a smile and a wave -- Shae turns to me with raised eyebrows.

"So, you've managed to impress the Dragon," she says.

I shrug, fighting back the urge to apologise.

"She didn't seem that bad," I say softly.

Shae snorts. "You've obviously never seen how sarcastic she can be."

"Or seen her lose her temper," Asha breaks in, and I almost choke on the idea of Asha accusing someone else of having a temper. And *Shae*, of all people, having a problem with sarcasm? (Not that I'm criticising her. I mean, I like her snarky little comments. They're funny. And they're never directed at me.)

"She thinks she's so much better than everyone else," Shae mutters, scowling a little.

"She always thinks she's right."

"She's always pushing some cause or another, and she goes on and on and on and on and *on* about it until you agree with her just so she'll shut the hell up."

"And she's a LARPer!"

I stare at Asha, wondering if I heard her correctly.

"What's a LARPer?" I ask, tentatively.

"A live-action roleplayer." She pulls a disgusted face, like the phrase leaves a bad taste in her mouth. "They run around the lake wearing fake armour, waving fake weapons around, pretending to slay fake dragons and shit."

I frown. "So, LARPing isn't the same as re-enactment?"

I know as soon as the words are out of my mouth that I've said the wrong thing. (As usual.) Behind Asha, Shae shakes her head and face-palms exaggeratedly. Asha just stares at me for what feels like the longest moment of my life. She takes a step towards me, and I try not to flinch.

"They're not the same thing at *all*," she practically growls. "We use metal weapons for a start; none of that foam or latex crap. We wear actual chain mail, not knitted vests spray-painted silver. And we fight *realistically*, we don't flail and flounce around like we're country dancing!"

"Okay," I say, placatingly. "They're completely different things. I get that now, I'm sorry."

"And we *re-enact* famous battles from British history. We put a lot of time and effort into making sure everything is as historically accurate as possible. We learn authentic crafting methods to make our clothes and props and things. We aim for *realism*. They just make shit up! Magic and dragons and whatever the hell they feel like. It's just a glorified game of let's pretend! And not even *that* glorified."

She winds down her little rant, glaring at me like she's expecting me to say something.

"I see," I offer. It's all I can think of, but it seems to be enough. She snorts again, but her shoulders relax, and some of the wind seems to leave her sails. (For some reason, I can't stop myself lapsing into nautical metaphors around her.)

"Good," she mutters. "I'm going to change the filters on the machine. You two should find something useful to do." With one last glower, she stomps off back into the storeroom.

I start collecting used crockery to stack in the dishwasher. Shae tackles the cleaning and restocking. Aside from the sounds of us working, silence reigns for a little while. I catch Shae giving me sidelong glances every now and then, but she doesn't say anything. For some reason, I find myself feeling faintly... guilty.

It's a relief when she comes over and gives me a small smile.

"Asha feels strongly about the difference between metal and rubber weaponry," she says softly, her eyes twinkling.

"I kind of got that impression."

She leans in close. "You know," she says, confidingly. "Asha and Daenerys are both members of the university debating society. I understand that they have crossed wits with each other a number of times."

I nod slowly. I guess that explains a few things. Not everything, though.

"So, why don't *you* like her?"

She doesn't answer me right away, and I think maybe she isn't going to, but then she sighs.

"It's not that I don't like her," she says. "She can even be quite charming when she wants to be. It's just... I've met people like her before. They always have such grand ideas, and they're absolutely convinced that their way is the right way, the only way. They won't listen to anyone who doesn't just nod their head and agree. And when they move on to their next crusade, it’s the people they've dragged along in their wake that have to pick up the pieces." She shrugs. "As I said: I know the type, and I don't have much tolerance for them. It isn't personal."

I don't really know what to say to that (although I do file that information away for later consideration), so I ask another question.

"Do you know what she's studying?"

"Law."

I think about that a moment, turning the image that conjures over in my mind. Yes, I can totally see Daenerys in a courtroom, passionately arguing her case, eyes flashing with conviction. I may not know her, not really, but I want to believe that she'd be good at it.

"You know," Shae continues. "Ygritte and I have a running joke that, somewhere down the line, Asha and Deanery’s are bound to end up on opposite sides of a class-action lawsuit."

I can see that too.

Although I can't help picturing it as some kind of literal fight. Were-shark versus, let me see... Vampire? Yes, vampire. Day-walker vampire. Asha's the were-shark, of course. She'd be in her land form, huge and muscled, with tough hide and several rows of vicious teeth. Daenerys would be slender and pale, but impossibly agile and fast. She'd be wielding a sword. No, two swords, one made of steel and one of silver.

Why are they fighting? Umm... Not sure yet. Territory? A generations-long feud? Just because?

I'll think of something.

I'm also not sure yet how the dragons fit into things, but give me time.

(I can't help thinking that Asha would actually be flattered if I told her that, in a world of dark magics and supernatural creatures, she would totally be the leader of a vicious tribe of were-sharks. Asha Greyjoy: the terror of land and sea alike, raiding her enemies and rending their flesh with gleeful abandon. I can see it now...)

"Stark, are you just going to stare at that dishwasher, or are you actually going to turn it on?"

I jump guiltily.

"Sorry, sorry. I was just making sure it's full and that the rotors aren't blocked and... and..." My train of thought derails somewhere before the end of that sentence. "Stuff," I finish lamely.

She snorts. "You can daydream about sparkling vampires and pretty-boy werewolves on your own time. Focus on the task at hand."

"Okay, sorry."

Once! She caught me reading one of those books at the counter *one time*. That's all. And, not only did I get an earful from her at the time, but whenever I think she's finally let it go, she goes and brings it up again. I get it! She doesn't like the Twilight books. Not that she's ever *read* them (that she'll admit), but she objects on general principles. Something about them 'sanitising the old legends into bland Hollywood crap' and 'turning them into nothing more than a masturbation fantasy for teenaged girls.'

(Actually, she didn't use the words 'crap' and 'masturbation.' She used different words.)

The worst thing is, I think Shae agrees with her. Although maybe her reasons are different. (I can't help the way my stomach twists a little at the thought of Shae's disapproval, no matter how mild.)

My mutinous thoughts carry me through filling the detergent, salt and rinse aid dispensers, but the irritation is already starting to fade by the time I select and start the programme. What does it even matter if Asha doesn't approve of my taste in books? It's not like she ever approves of anything else about me.

I look for something else to do, taking the opportunity to check whether Asha's waiting to jump down my throat for standing around 'daydreaming'. Luckily, she seems to have disappeared into the back somewhere. I can hear her voice, so she's probably on the phone. Maybe she's checking in with Mr Baelish. (I wonder how his big meeting's going. I wonder if it's going to affect us at all.)

I notice that Shae is eyeing me speculatively.

"What?" I ask, feeling a little defensive.

"So, what story have you woven around the inimitable Miss Targaryen?" she asks.

I shrug awkwardly, straightening a stack of clean cups so that their handles all line up neatly.

"I haven't really had the chance to think of one," I temporise, not entirely truthfully. I'm feeling more than a little self-conscious.

She raises her eyebrows. "I'm sure you can come up with something..."

I pretend to think for a moment, and then clear my throat.

"A vampire warrior and would-be queen, a direct descendant of Dracula himself, on a quest to reclaim her throne and her territory from a vile usurper. The rest of her family were killed, but she was smuggled out by loyal servants, and sent away to a far-away court where she struggled to survive. That period of her life gave her a strong hatred of tyrants and bullies, so she makes a point of standing up for the disenfranchised and oppressed whenever she can. Even if that risks alienating potential allies." I shrug, smiling sheepishly. "That's all I have, sorry."

"Don't be sorry. I like it." She grins. "A vampire warrior queen, eh?"

I nod. "Yes."

"You know, the name 'Dracula' literally means 'son of the dragon' in English. So, in your story, Daenerys would be a daughter of the dragon." Shae's eyes twinkle. "Which is funny, given Asha's name for her."

"Huh. I didn't know that." But I am *so* going to use it in my story. And now I know where the dragons fit in.

"In any case," Shae says, matter-of-factly. "Her draconic, vampiric highness seems to have taken a liking to you, so I'm afraid you'll probably be stuck making her drinks from now on. Do you think you can handle that?"

I nod again, more firmly this time.

"Yes, I can handle that."

And, much to my surprise, I actually believe I can.

In fact, not only can I handle it, I think I might actually be looking forward to it.


	3. Chapter 3

"Hmmm." Daenerys frowns thoughtfully, sipping the coffee-syrup-cream concoction like a sommelier tasting some particularly rare and precious vintage. I try not to look like I'm waiting with bated breath. (Which I totally, pathetically am. Sometimes I'm such a nincompoop.) "Could do with being just a *touch* hotter, perhaps."

"I'm sorry," I burst out. "I guess I took too long making it. I can make you another one?"

I start grabbing utensils and syrups, clattering and clanking around like an elephant on roller-skates. ("...break everything, why don't you? You're so *clumsy*, Sansa.") She stops me with a gesture, smiling kindly like she isn't annoyed (angry) at the fact that I've messed this up. (I mess everything up.)

"No need to do that," she says, soothingly. "It's good, otherwise." A grin lights up her face, bringing a sparkle to her wonderful eyes. "I'll just drink it quickly." To illustrate, she takes a deep draught of it, sighing appreciatively.

"If you're sure...?"

My pulse slows back to normal, the panicky fluttering in my stomach settling down. (I need to be stronger than this. I thought I *was* doing better than this, at least for a while. I can't have a fit of the vapours every time a customer -- or anyone else -- is less than impressed with me. I'd spend my whole life curled up in the foetal position.)

"I'm sure. I wouldn't say so otherwise."

She says that like it's so obvious, like of course she says what she means and means what she says; why wouldn't she? Why wouldn't anyone? (I wish I lived in her world. Although it's the last place I would have expected to find a lawyer-in-training.)

I return her smile, feeling a little flustered.

"You're studying law, aren't you?" I blurt out.

Daenerys nods. "Just starting my second year." She's only a year older than me? But she seems so much more poised, more polished, more *confident*. I wonder what she was like a year ago. "Although I took a gap year in-between." Oh. Two years older, than. Her cheerful demeanour seems to falter a little, like a cloud passing over the face of the sun, the shine in her eyes dulling just a touch. "I..." Her hesitation is uncharacteristic. (It worries me, even though I barely know her.) "I spent some time travelling." There's a moment, a brief flicker of time, when I have the feeling that I could ask the question, and have it answered. Why does she look so sad? (What happened to her out there, wherever 'out there' was?) But then she takes a breath, the moment passes, and the clouds are gone as if they never even existed. "So, what about you? What are you studying?"

Redirect, change the focus to the other person. A tactic I know well. But if she doesn't want to talk about it, I'm certainly not going to pry. It's not like I don't have my own secrets, and she is still a near-stranger after all.

Although... Maybe that's about to change?

"Psychology and Cognitive Neuroscience," I say softly. "First year."

She raises her eyebrows. At first I think it's doubt (how could someone as pathetic as me be studying something like that?), but then I realise it's actually, startlingly, admiration.

"Challenging subjects," she says, approvingly. "Dual honours, too. I knew you were more than a pretty face and deft hands."

For a moment, I almost can't believe what I'm hearing, and then my face burns so hotly I'm sure I must be crimson right to the roots of my hair. I duck my head, covering my discombobulation by starting to clear up the counter, not sure what to say.

She thinks I'm pretty? And deft-handed? Not awkward and gangling and clumsy?

She's probably just being polite.

"Thank you," I say, a little belatedly, my voice barely louder than a whisper.

"You don't have to thank me," she says, and I look up through the curtain of my hair, making myself meet her eyes with an expression that I hope at least approximates a smile.

"My mother taught me it was good manners to thank someone for saying something nice about you."

"You don't need to thank me for speaking the truth." She pauses, but I'm so tongue-tied I just can't get a word out. The moment stretches awkwardly, until she eventually takes pity on me and my obvious social gaucheness. (Not that I used to be this way. Quite the opposite, in fact. A regular social butterfly. But that was before... Before.) "What made you choose that degree?"

I shrug. "I'm..." I stop and clear my throat, forcing myself to stand up straight and meet her gaze like a normal person. "I've always been interested in learning how people think and learn. What makes them tick."

"I see. Are you thinking of going into therapy eventually? Or working in research?"

"I haven't decided yet."

Actually, it's more accurate to say that I keep changing my decision. Sometimes I think I just want to help people directly, by encouraging them come to terms with the things that make them the way they are. Other times, I want to find out the whys and wherefores, improving the field of therapy more generally.

Either has its advantages and disadvantages.

"Well, you have a couple of years to decide, I suppose. But you might want to look into getting some work experience before you graduate. Some of the university labs are happy to apply for grants for summer projects, so you can even get paid for it. One of my friends did that this summer just gone." She leans in a little, lowering her voice confidingly. "It actually made her realise that the last thing she wants to do with her life is spend it working in a lab." She shrugs, and then smiles brightly. "But that's still useful to know before you start applying for jobs, isn't it?"

"I guess," I mutter, feeling a little overwhelmed. I haven't really thought that far ahead. Not in any detail.

"Just think about it," she says, finishing off the rest of her coffee. (That was fast. I'm sure I would've burned my mouth if I'd tried gulping down a hot -- even not-quite-hot-enough -- drink like that. Or choked on it. Something embarrassing, that's for sure.) "The sooner you figure out what you want in life, the sooner you can start making it happen."

"Still trying to tell people how to live their lives, I see," Asha's voice drawls from behind me. I manage not to jump, glancing around with -- I hope -- something approaching dignity. She's looking directly at Daenerys, ignoring me as if I don't exist.

I'm... actually fine with that.

"Still pretending like you have a clue what's going on outside your own narrow little world, Asha?" Danaerys' voice could cut steel.

I swallow silently and start clearing up the work area, trying to keep my movements as small and quiet as possible. I do not want to get drawn into this. I really, really, *really* hope I don't have to try to intervene. (And I refuse to acknowledge the still, small voice inside that's insisting I should just leave right now.)

Asha snorts, pushing off from the wall she's leaning against to stand there with her hands on her hips.

This is... bad. This could be really bad. I look around in vain for help, but there's no one else around. No other customers, Shae isn't due in yet and Ygritte disappeared off for a cigarette break some time ago and never came back.

What should I do?

In the absence of any easy answers, I continue clearing up and making myself inconspicuous.

I glance surreptitiously from one to the other as they square off, struck by the contrast between them. Asha, dark and solid. Danaerys, blonde and ethereal. (Instinctively, inappropriately, the part of my mind that's always telling stories files away every detail of the scene, using it to flesh out the inevitable confrontation between the vampire queen and the leader of the were-sharks.)

"Like you can talk about small worlds," Asha says, contemptuously. "Driven anyone else away lately?"

Danaerys draws herself up, spots of colour forming high on her cheeks. "Made anyone cry lately?"

Asha shrugs laconically. "No one that didn't deserve it. Why, are you about to start bawling?"

"You wish!" Danaerys snaps. "You're nothing but a bully."

"And you're a bloody-"

"Weneedmorecoffeebeans!" I blurt out, my voice sounding childlike and tremulous. Both sets of eyes snap to me, and it's all I can do not to wither under their combined force. Instead, I fix my own gaze on the wall above Asha's shoulder and will my voice not to shake. "Asha, would you mind giving me a hand, please? The sacks are so heavy, and... and I'm not all that strong."

The atmosphere is so thick with tension that I'm finding it hard to breathe. I have time to start to wonder if I've just made a horrible, terrible mistake; if I should just start apologising now and hope they're not too angry with me, but then Asha sighs and turns away.

"I'll go get it. You stay here and man the till."

She stomps off into the stockroom.

I never realised that retrieving a sack of coffee beans could involve so much swearing and banging around.

Daenerys stares after her for a moment, eyes narrowed, then she turns back to me.

"Sorry about that," she says, tightly. "She's just so... She winds me up so much, sometimes." She finishes the rest of her coffee, then sets the cup down on the counter with a loud click and flashes me a rueful smile. "Sorry you got caught in the middle of it."

"It's alright," I say, helpless to say anything else. What else *can* I say? Being anywhere near a confrontation like that makes me feel sick to my stomach? Hardly. So I muster the nearest thing to a smile that I can manage.

"It's not alright," she objects, frowning again. Maybe my smile doesn't come off quite as well as I hope. "I shouldn't have let her rile me like that. Just because we don't get on, that doesn't mean you should catch the fallout."

"I'm okay," I offer. (Asha isn't going to take this out on me. Is she?)

Speaking of the devil, Asha picks that moment to reappear with the beans. Ignoring Daenerys completely, she starts to shove the sack into the cubbyhole beneath the counter, then frowns and pulls out the half-full sack that's already there. Shooting a glare in my direction (I just manage to stop myself from swallowing nervously), she somehow manages to wedge both sacks in there with the open one at the front.

Taking off her apron with short, angry motions, she hangs it on the peg and retrieves her bag.

"It's time for my break," she says shortly, still not bothering to so much as look in Danaerys' direction. I have some errands to run in town. I'll be back soon. You can hold the fort, can't you?"

"Yes," I say, nodding vigorously.

"Good. When Ygritte finally gets her arse back inside, tell her she's a lazy cow and if she doesn't stop slacking off I'm going tell Baelish to dock her pay."

"Ummm..." I have no idea what to say to that but, luckily, she doesn't seem to expect a reply. She stomps out of the shop without either a backwards glance or a goodbye, closing the door hard behind her. The doorbell jangles merrily with her departure. The sound seems incongruous, out of place. She doesn't quite slam the door -- not *quite* -- but I worriedly search the glass for any signs of cracks.

There are none that I can see. Fortunately.

Danaerys frowns in the direction of the door.

"She really should learn to control her temper."

(I carefully don't let myself think that maybe, perhaps, possibly Asha isn't the only one.)

"She's not usually like this," I say, feeling compelled to defend Asha. "Well... Not really. She's usually alright with me, anyway."

And I've never, *ever* seen her argue so vehemently with a customer before. Not one that wasn't causing trouble, anyway.

Daenerys gives me a dubious look, but doesn't contradict me. "Well, don't forget that there are laws against making a hostile workplace. If it ever does get bad, you do have options. I could help."

"It's okay, really," I say, more firmly. I *like* this job. I definitely don't want to do anything to jeopardise it.

"Well... alright." She sighs. "I suppose I should probably get going, anyway." Her expression brightens again. "I was enjoying our chat, though."

I smile back at her, hopelessly lost in her dazzling blue eyes. "I liked it too."

"We should definitely continue it sometime."

"Yes," I say, a little dazedly.

She settles her backpack in place and adjusting the straps. "Goodbye, Sansa. See you soon."

"Bye."

And, with a smile and a wave, she takes her leave. I stare at the closed door for a few moments after she's stepped through it, shaking off the inescapable sense of deja vu as I try to get my breath back.

"Hey there."

And... there goes my pulse again, racing like it's trying to win the Grand National.

Why oh *why* do people keep sneaking up behind me like that? What's *wrong* with them?

Ygritte is the culprit this time, grinning cheerfully at me in that way of hers that means I can't stay annoyed at her for long.

"Hi Ygritte. Um, Asha said..." And then I stall. How exactly am I supposed to pass on Asha's message? I can't exactly repeat it word for word. Something in me cringes at the very thought.

"I heard," says Ygritte, more cheerfully than I would have expected. I certainly wouldn't be smiling if someone called me a lazy cow and threatened to report me to the manager. "Heard the rest of it, too." She shivers theatrically. "No way in hell was I going to walk into the middle of *that* little dust-up. It's more than my life's worth."

"Oh." I can't really argue with that, I suppose, much though I would have appreciated a rescue.

"Although I do wish I could have seen the looks on their faces." She sighs theatrically. "Oh well. I'm sure there'll be other opportunities."

I really, really hope she's wrong. I don't think my nerves could take another incident like that. I almost thought they were going to come to blows. God only knows what I would have done if *that* happened.

Cried, probably.

"You're not worried about Asha complaining about you to Mr Baelish?" I can't help asking.

"Naah," she says, dropping down onto one of the sofas and flicking idly through a magazine. "I'll just wear shorter skirts and make sure to bend down a lot when he's around. Littlefinger will be too busy drooling to even think about docking my pay." She looks over the magazine at me and waggles her eyebrows. "Maybe he'll even give me a raise."

How can she say something like that so casually? Even the thought of it makes me so uncomfortable that I have to turn away to hide the expression I can feel wanting to surface, self-consciously tugging down my own (knee-length) skirt. When I have myself under control again, I ask about the one thing she said that I can talk about.

Well, that I can talk about without sounding as judgmental as my mother.

"Why did you call Mr Baelish Littlefinger?"

She shrugs carelessly. "I heard some of the other store managers call him that at some corporate team-building thing we went on last year. I don't know why. He laughed it off, but I could tell he hated it." Her eyes sparkle as she flashes me a grin. "It kind of suits him, though, don't you think?"

"I guess," I say, softly. "Where is he today, anyway?"

"Some course or other. I wasn't paying attention. Asha will know." She looks up at the clock, then sighs heavily and puts the magazine down, getting to her feet. "Uh oh. Better get ready for rush hour."

As if her words have summoned them, the first evening customers start trickling almost as soon as she's finished speaking. Luckily, Asha returns just before it gets really busy, briskly tying on her apron and stepping up to the register next to mine.

"Sansa, why don't you switch places with Ygritte?" she says, sounding almost civil. I teeter between relief at not having to face the sea of humanity surging towards the counter, and worry that she thinks I'm doing a bad job. Much to my surprise, she adds: "You've gotten pretty good at making drinks."

Too startled to answer, I just nod and do as she suggests. I'm briefly worried that Ygritte might be annoyed at the switch, but she actually seems pleased.

"Silly Sansa," she whispers as we switch places. "Don't you know the reward for hard work is more work? Thanks for getting me the easy job!"

Then the real rush hits, and there's no time for conversation, speculation or really much of anything aside from working.

And if, during the odd lull here and there, my thoughts should wander to a certain blonde-haired, blue-eyed law student?

(She said she liked talking to me.)

(I mean, she was probably just being polite, but still...)

Well.

(She liked talking to me. And if she liked talking to me, does that mean..?)

No one can prove a thing.

(She likes me?)

 

Later, when we've shooed the last customer out the door, and my thoughts are already turning towards the preparation I need to do for tomorrow's tutorial, Asha startles me for the second time this evening.

"Sansa, can I have a word?"

"Umm..." I glance around surreptitiously, but Ygritte is bopping around to music on her headphones with her eyes closed, apparently completely oblivious to her surroundings. "Sure. I put the sweeping brush down and turn to face Asha. "What is it?"

Am I getting fired? Did I mess something up? Did a customer complain about their drink? Did *all* of them complain? Oh, please don't let me be getting fired. I like this job. I *need* this job.

"I just wanted to..." She pauses. If she were anyone else, I would say she actually hesitates, but this is Asha. Asha Greyjoy doesn't hesitate. She seizes the day. She clears her throat and continues. "I shouldn't have argued with a customer like that. It was stupid and unprofessional. I'm... sorry you had to see that."

I... What?

I don't believe my ears. Asha... admitting fault? Apologising?

Apologising to *me*?

I don't know what to say. But I have to say *something*. She's looking at me so expectantly, and the seconds are ticking by...

"Umm," I begin, eloquently. "It's okay." I search vainly for something else to say, something to make this whole situation less awkwardly surreal, but I come up blank. Instead, I have to settle for: "At least there were no other customers. And Mr Baelish wasn't here."

"Thank god for small mercies, at least." She throws up her hands, making a wordless sound of frustration. "She just winds me up something *chronic*!"

"I noticed."

Eep! I didn't mean to say that out loud. Luckily, Asha just shoots me an amused glance.

"Yeah, I guess you did. Anyway, it won't happen again." She tilts her head thoughtfully. "*Probably* won't happen again," she amends. "I'm not going to go out of my way to pick a fight with her, anyway. If *she* starts something, though, by *Crom* I'm going to finish it."

"Mmmm," I say, as neutrally and noncommittally as I can. I make a mental note that if Asha and Daenerys even look at each other crosswise, I'm going to start subtly making my way to the nearest exit. The last thing I want is either of them asking me to take sides.

"Anyway," Asha says, dismissing the whole matter with a wave of her hand. "On a more positive note, you did good tonight." She claps me on the shoulder in a comradely fashion, almost knocking me off my feet. "We'll make a barista of you yet!"

"Thanks," I say, standing up straight. I give her a smile, but I probably look a little dazed. If so, she doesn't comment on it.

"You can head off now, if you want. Ygritte and I can finish clearing up."

"Are you sure?"

"Get out of here, Stark," she says, not unkindly. "I'll see you tomorrow. Keep up the good work."

"I will! Um, thanks! See you tomorrow."

I go to hang up my apron and grab my things, but I stop short I hear Asha bellow: "Oi, Ginger!"

I turn around, but she's talking to (well, shouting at) Ygritte, not me.

Phew.

Time to make my escape. Those lecture notes won't read themselves.

And, if I finish in time, maybe I can even work on the story that's been buzzing round in my head for the past couple of days.

Vampires and were-sharks and dragons, oh my!


	4. Chapter 4

The loud roar cuts through my thoughts like a hot knife through butter, startling me out of my reverie. I quickly look up, half-expecting (hoping?) to see the dragon I'd been daydreaming about, right there in the flesh. Nothing so interesting, alas. Just a group of motorcyclists rounding a corner and tearing down the road as if all the hounds of hell were snapping at their heels.

(A posse of motorcyclists? A herd? A pack? A roar? What is the correct collective noun for a group of motorcyclists, anyway?)

I pause at the kerb, waiting for them to pass before I cross. I might be able to make it across before they reach me, but I wouldn't want to risk it.

Better safe than sorry.

I'm already sinking back into my imagination, only paying the minimal amount of attention to my surroundings, so I almost jump out of my skin at the sudden, loud blaring of a horn. There doesn't seem to be an obvious reason for it that I can see. No near collisions, or inattentive pedestrians, or anything like that. Maybe just general exuberance? Except...

Did that biker just wave at me?

I glance around, but there's no one behind me. No one else who could be the focus of this entirely unexpected attention.

The biker honks his horn again. No, *her* horn. Could it be someone I know? Except I don't *think* I know anyone who rides a motorbike. Someone from my course, perhaps?

What do I do? What do I do?!

I feel my cheeks burn, and know that I must be doing a brilliant impression of a post-box right now.

Great. Just great.

Now I'm paralysed by embarrassment as well as indecision.

Luckily, I've wasted so much time dithering that the flotilla of bikes has roared off into the distance.

Phew.

Crisis over.

That biker probably thinks I'm rude for not acknowledging her, but I'm actually too relieved to care. Anyway, how likely is it that I'm even going to run into her again? Not very, I would've thought. I don't exactly hang around with 'biker chicks'. Which is probably just as well, because I think my mother would pitch a fit.

(Although, maybe that would actually be a point in its favour.)

I give myself a mental shake, look both ways, and then cross the road.

Now, where was I...?

 

"Where are this month's invoices?" Mr Baelish asks Asha, sounding distracted. He doesn't even look up from the papers in his hands, so he misses the way she rolls her eyes at his question.

"In the 'Current Month's Invoices' folder," she says, her voice is perfectly polite and professional. Then she spoils it by adding, reproachfully: "Where they usually are."

He frowns. "The folder isn't on the shelf where it's supposed to be."

"Have you moved it?"

"I don't think so. I'll have another look, though."

Asha shakes her head behind his back, looking over at me and silently mouthing a count. When she gets to seven, Mr Baelish's voice floats out faintly from the back room.

"Found it. Thanks."

Asha rolls her eyes again, but forbears to comment.

"What's wrong?" I ask her, leaning in close and keeping my voice to barely above a whisper. "Why is he in such a flap?"

"Fallout from the meeting the other day. Or possibly from the management course. He wasn't really very clear."

"Should we be worried?"

"Doubt it. We're actually doing pretty well for ourselves here. Apparently there's some movement in the upper echelons of our parent corporation, which means all the tiers below that are scrambling to gain an advantage. Or just to fuck over other people. Sounds like it's a bit of a rat's nest at the moment."

"That's awful!" I exclaim softly.

"That's business," she replies, shrugging philosophically.

"Then I'm really glad I'm not going into business," I can't help saying.

She raises her eyebrows.

"You think the hallowed halls of Academia are any better?"

I blink at her, a little nonplussed.

"Well... yes. It's about knowledge, not profits. An entirely different kettle of fish." I can feel myself warming to my subject, my hands fluttering like birds as I try to find the words to explain what I mean. "There's an entirely different philosophy at work. It's about co-operation, not competition. It-" Asha makes a strangled sound in her throat, then abruptly flings her head back and laughs. "What?" I ask a mixture of embarrassment and indignation churning in my stomach. "What's so funny?"

(What did I say?)

She shakes her head, apparently helpless to stop laughing. I swear to god there are actual tears of *mirth* on her cheeks. For one moment, anger flares up within me, the sudden surge of emotion feeling alien and strange. I quickly swallow it down again, deciding to just wait her out.

After a few moments (that feel like a lifetime), Asha gets herself back under control.

"I probably shouldn't laugh," she says, sighing. It's not an apology, not even close, but it's probably the nearest thing to one I'm likely to get from her. Fine. Whatever.

"Why did you?" The edge to my voice suggests I haven't done as good a job of reining in my irritation as I'd thought, and part of me quavers at my daring, but she either doesn't notice or doesn't care.

"Because it was damned funny. Academia not about competition? Please. You know what they call the peer review process? The pit of vipers. Academia, like anything else, is made up of people. And people, as a whole, are petty and avaricious sons of bitches."

"That's not true!" I burst out. "Some people are like that, sure, but not everyone." I know -- have known -- people who are exactly the way she describes. But I also know lots of people who aren't. *I'm* not like that. (At least, I don't think I am. I hope I'm not. I try not to be.) Shae isn't, Ygritte isn't. I don't even think Asha is, not really, despite what she says. And I may not know her very well yet, but I just know that Daenerys isn't. "Anyway," I continue, more sure of my footing now. "It's not like there's any profit in academic research."

"Tell that to Big Pharma."

I gape at her for a moment or two, struggling to find the words to tell her just how wrong she is. But I struggle too long, and she nods in satisfaction, apparently convinced that I'm conceding the point. Which I totally am not. I just need to find the right words.

But she's already turned her attention away from me, looking over my shoulder towards the coffee shop door. Sure enough, the bell jangles.

"You can deal with this one. I'll go and make sure Mr Baelish doesn't ransack the office any further."

And without giving me the chance to say a word, she turns and leaves.

 

"You didn't wave back."

"Huh?" My smile freezes and I blink at Daenerys, thrown by the first words out of her mouth when she steps up to the counter. I was expecting something more along the lines of 'hello'.

"When I waved to you on Saturday. You didn't wave back."

I stare blankly. "I didn't... see you?" Saturday, Saturday.... The archery thing? I don't think so, but when could- "Wait a minute. The biker chick? That was you?"

The second the words are out of my mouth I wish I could call them back. Or that the ground would open up and swallow me whole. My cheeks are burning so much that I'm almost shocked that I don't burst into flames right where I stand. I duck my head, letting my hair fall forward over my face.

Daenerys' laughter makes me flinch, and for a brief moment, I hear an echo of other laughter, hard-edged and mean. I start to hunch in on myself, but then make myself stop, take a breath, and lift my eyes again. With an effort of will, I shake off the echo as if it was never there (if only it was never there) and look up in the general direction of Daenerys' face.

I can't quite bring myself to meet her eyes.

"Are you okay, Sansa?" Her eyes are still bright, but her expression is turning puzzled, that little frown line between her eyes starting to deepen into visibility.

"Yes, fine. Just..." I frantically search for words, then end up blurting out the truth. "Just embarrassed. I can't believe I said that. And I can't believe I froze when you waved to me." I pull a face. "I didn't mean to be rude. You just took me a little by surprise. I didn't realise it was you."

"You didn't recognise the 'biker chick' as me, huh?" She gives me a soft smile, and I find myself returning it, my face starting to cool a little.

"No," I agree. "I just..." Never would have guessed? Wouldn't have expected it in a million years? Could sooner have believed her to be a dragon's daughter than a motorcyclist? "You don't seem the type," I finish, lamely.

"Because law students aren't generally biker chicks?" she says, teasingly.

I shrug. "Something like that." Belatedly, I remember that I'm supposed to be working. "Oh! Can I get started on your order?"

She blinks like she'd also forgotten that this isn't just a chance meeting of friends. (Are we friends? I'd like to think we could be.)

"Ah, yes. I'll have a medium white chocolate peppermint mocha with semi-skimmed milk, whipped cream and marshmallows, please." I can't help raising my eyebrows a little as I ring that up and take the payment. "I know, I know," she says, smiling ruefully as she pays. "Semi-skimmed milk *and* whipped cream. And all the rest." She shrugs. "What can I say? It made sense in my head."

"I wasn't going to say a thing," I murmur, handing over her change and receipt. I start on her drink.

"No, I guess you wouldn't."

Now, what is that supposed to mean?

Not that I'd dream of asking her. I may not like the answer, after all.

"So, Daenerys Targaryen, law student and... motorcycle gang member?" I ask, instead. "How did that happen?" There has to be a story there. There just *has* to be. "If you don't mind me asking," I append hurriedly.

"Not at all." But she doesn't answer right away. I sneak a glance at her, and the expression on her face is faraway and maybe even a little sad. "I'm more of an... honorary member, really," she says, softly. "My last boyfriend was a biker. The leader of his own gang, actually. They... accepted me as one of them. Eventually. And I still kept in contact with some of them after Drogo... After that relationship ended."

She blinks rapidly a few times and her eyes seem to shine in the late-afternoon sunlight, so I could almost think... Is she...? But even as the thought crosses my mind, she's smiling again.

"Some of them are in town for a bit," she says. "So I go out riding with them once in a while."

"You brought your bike with you to university?" I ask, stupidly.

"Yep." She shrugs. "It's a good way of getting around. Faster than a pushbike, cheaper than a car. There's nothing quite like the open road." She quirks an eyebrow. "What about you?"

"Um, what about me?"

"Do you have transport?"

"Shanks' pony, mostly. Or the bus, if I'm feeling really lazy." I shrug. "I like walking." And, more importantly, it doesn't cost anything. "And pretty much everywhere I need to get to is less than an hour's walk from my house."

Daenaerys raises her eyebrows. "An hour? You really do like walking."

I don't really know what to say to that, so I just shrug again. "Here's your mocha."

"Thank you." She swipes a spoonful of cream from the top of her drink and unselfconsciously pops it into her mouth. "Mmmm..." Setting aside the now-gleaming spoon, she licks a stray smear of cream from the side of her full, glistening lips and then takes a sip of her mocha. "Oh," she sighs, her eyes drifting half-closed. "That's good."

For some reason, I find myself blushing again.

"I'm glad you like it," I mutter, clearing up the workstation. It wasn't exactly the most complicated drink she's ever ordered. It was pretty straightforward, actually.

"It's just what I needed," she says.

Looking at her more closely, I'm surprised to see that she seems... tired.

"Bad day?" I ask sympathetically. I immediately start to worry that I'm being a little forward, but she just smiles back at me.

"More like an irritating day," she says.

"Do you... Do you want to talk about it?"

She looks at me blankly for a moment, so that I'm on the edge of muttering something like 'never mind,' or 'it doesn't matter' (or, 'I'm sorry'), but then she smiles and nods.

"Yes, if it won't get you in trouble."

I look around at the mostly empty shop. A couple occupying one of the sofas, oblivious to everything but each other. A harried-looking student typing rapidly on a laptop, muttering under his breath, utterly focused on whatever he's working on. Asha and Mr Baelish are closeted in the back room, arguing over -- sorry, 'discussing' -- business-related stuff. Shae's on a break and Ygritte's running late.

"No, it's fine."

"Well then, you're on." She takes a seat at the nearest table to the counter. "I've been running a campaign to get the council to put more streetlights in Radford..."

The more she talks, the more I find myself getting drawn in. She's just so passionate, and articulate, and... and her arguments seem to make so much sense. At least when she's speaking. I'm not necessarily completely clear on all the details afterwards, but it sounds like such a good cause. I mean, I've never been to that part of town, but I've heard the stories. More streetlights there can only be a good thing.

"So it turned out that there's a whole new set of forms to fill in before we present the petition," she finishes, grimacing. "And, strictly off the record, one of the clerks told me that we're going to need to double the number of signatures we have for them to even consider it. Which means we've got to somehow find some new groups to target, but no one seems to be able to agree on how we should go about it." She leans back in her chair, sighing heavily. "So, that was my day." She looks at me, grinning ruefully. "Sorry. I think I rambled on a bit there. Thanks for listening. I think I actually do feel better for getting it off my chest."

"You're welcome," I say softly, returning her smile. And then, because the thought has been slowly crystallising in my mind for the past few minutes, I say: "I could help out, if you want."

"I wasn't hinting," she says, looking a little, well, a little embarrassed. "I know I can get carried away sometimes, but I wasn't trying to talk you into anything."

"I know," I say, a little more firmly. "I *want* to help. It sounds like a good cause. And I... I've been thinking that I need to get involved more. In things. Local causes." I feel myself starting to get tongue-tied, so I make myself stop talking and smile.

"Well, if you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

"Great!" She smiles brilliantly, touching me lightly on the shoulder. "That really is fantastic, Sansa, I mean it. Now." Her expression sobers, her manner turning business-like. (I inwardly mourn the loss of that smile.) "As I said, what we really need right now are more signatures on that petition. Getting it to anyone we haven't already canvassed is probably our best bet. So, probably the most helpful thing you could do right now would be to spread the word."

"Oh." I feel a little faint as I think through the implications of that. "So, should I go up to people and hand out leaflets?" Even thinking about that terrifies me.

"If you want to. But we've already done a pretty good job with the physical campaigning. We've even got a poster up on the noticeboard over there."

She gestures towards the board in the corner. I tactfully refrain from mentioning the fact that I hadn't even noticed the poster. (Heck, I barely even notice the board.)

"I was thinking more along the lines of Facebook and Twitter," she continues. "Also, some university clubs and departments have let us use their noticeboards and mailing lists. I can send you a summary of what we've done so far, together with the relevant files and links. What's your e-mail address?" I recite it dazedly, and she enters it into her phone. "Can I have your phone number as well?" I have to look that up, and I stumble a little over the number, so in the end I end up just holding out my phone to her so she can just read it off the screen. "Thanks."

She puts her phone away and looks at me, smiling again.

"Thank you for your help, Sansa. It really does mean a lot to me."

"You're welcome," I say, and my voice sounds a little more confident this time. I can do this. I can.

"And if it turns out that you don't have time after all, that's fine too. Don't feel obligated to put yourself out for this, okay?"

She actually seems genuinely concerned. Like she thinks I might be feeling pressured into volunteering, and is giving me the chance to back out gracefully.

And under other circumstances, she'd probably be right. But right now?

I actually don't feel pressured at all.

I actually feel like a volunteer.

"I won't," I reassure her. "I mean, I don't know if I'll be able to do much." Because I know my limitations, after all. "But I'd like to do what I can."

"Well, I appreciate it. Thank you."

She bestows on me another one of those glorious smiles.

And as I bask in the warmth, I can't help thinking: Asha and Shae were so wrong about Daenerys.

So very, very wrong.

 

I check the list of orders, slightly startled to realise that it's actually shrinking. Looks like the rush is finally tapering off. I glance around the shop, noting that there are even some empty tables here and there. Shae is taking the opportunity to clear and clean them while she can.

Daenerys seems to be immersed in whatever she's working on at the moment. I wonder if it's something for her course, or for some another campaign. I wonder if she'll tell me about it, when we have the chance to talk again. There's still so much I don't know about her. But I'd like to, if she wants to tell me. If she doesn't think it's too much of an imposition on my part. If she really does like talking to me. 

If she's not just being polite.

("They only talk to you out of pity, you know. And politeness. But you should hear what they say behind your back. Let me tell you...")

"Earth to Sansa. Come in, Sansa."

I start a little as Ygritte's voice breaks through my reverie.

"What?" I ask, instinctively matching her low tone. "What is it?"

"Your not-so-secret admirer's here."

"Huh?" I stare blankly at her for a moment, then look where she's pointing. "Oh." Reza has just walked through the door, and is chatting with a group of people crammed in around one of the tables. "He's not... He doesn't..."

I stumble over my words, my cheeks flushing despite my fervent wish that they wouldn't. I bend over the cups I'm filling, hoping it'll hide the flush. There are times when I really, really hate my over-developed blush reflex. (The rest of the time I just moderately loathe it.)

"You don't need to deny it," she says, smirking. "Nothing wrong with having an 'admirer' or two." She actually makes air quotes around the word. "Or three."

"It's not *like* that," I protest. "He just talks to me sometimes."

"And invites you to archery competitions."

I shrug helplessly.

"He really likes archery."

"Really likes *you*, you mean."

"No, no, that isn't..." But my voice trails off, my protests losing steam as I look at our past conversations with new eyes. Oh god. I think... I think she might be right. "He likes me?"

"You didn't know?" Ygritte shakes her head, laughing softly. "Of course you didn't. Sansa, I like you a lot, but sometimes I think you know nothing about men."

I open my mouth to object, but close it again without saying anything. What can I say? Ygritte isn't wrong.

"What should I do?" I ask, instead.

"I don't think you need to do much at all. You're in there." She winks suggestively. "Just follow his lead."

"But that's not..."

That's not what I meant. I don't want to be 'in there'. I mean, he seems like a nice guy and all. He's funny and smart. And he has a nice smile. I do like him, as a potential friend, even if he does fluster me sometimes. But I'm just not interested in him as anything more. 

So, how do I tell him that?

(Without making him angry?)

"Anyway, he's coming over. I'll take his order, then the two of you can chat." She nudges me. "He's pretty hot, you know. If you get tired of him, or if you don't mind sharing, give me a shout.

I make a small noise that she seems to take as agreement, or something. Something appropriate, anyway. With a final smile and wink, she turns her attention back to the till. I quickly look up, just as quickly casting my gaze back down again when I see Reza starting to head over in the direction of the counter. I focus on making drinks, barely even looking up to hand them over to the handful of waiting customers.

Maybe if I just look busy enough, he won't try to talk to me. Maybe I won't have to say anything at all. Maybe-

"Hi Sansa. How's it going?"

"Um. Hi Reza. Fine thanks. Busy though." But even as I say the words, I realise that the list of orders has dwindled down to two, and I've almost finished the first of those. "How about you?"

"Good, thanks," he replies, brightly.

"Good," I echo faintly. "Um, Chai latte for Tom."

"Thanks," says the customer, nodding amiably as he takes the drink.

"You're welcome," I murmur. At least, that's what I try to say. It comes out as something of an unintelligible murmur. My blush deepens, but the customer has already turned away. By coincidence, Daenerys looks up from her laptop just as my gaze passes over that part of the shop. Our eyes meet briefly, and she smiles. I find myself smiling back.

"What did you think of the competition?"

"Um..." I drop my gaze again, starting to make the last order on the list. Reza's usual latte. Nothing particularly complicated. "It was... interesting."

Dull. Occasionally frightening, but mostly dull. Surrounded by a crowd of strangers, watching people shoot arrows at targets; not even close to my idea of a good time.

"I'm glad you enjoyed it!" Reza smiles brilliantly, the expression lighting up his whole face. I don't have the heart to correct him. "It's a pity you couldn't come to the pub with us afterwards."

"I had an essay I needed to finish before my shift here."

Well, maybe that's not quite true. There was an essay, but it's not actually due in for a couple of weeks yet. I did have a shift here, though.

"You work so hard, Sansa. Too hard, maybe. You know what they say about all work and no play..."

"I do play," I protest half-heartedly. "I've just... got a lot of work to do at the moment."

"Well, I'm very glad to hear that you do more than work," he says, sounding pleased.

Why is he sounding pleased?

But I'm distracted from my wonderings by Ygritte tacking another order to the board. I glance at it as I pour the milk into Reza's latte. Two shots, three different syrups, very specific instructions for the type and preparation of the milk. I don't even need to see the name to know who it's for.

Sure enough, a familiar blonde-haired figure moves around to stand by the serving counter. I give her a harried smile.

"I'm just about to get to yours," I tell Daenerys.

She smiles back. "No rush," she says. "I'm not in a hurry."

I put the lid on Reza's cardboard cup and hand it to him.

"There you go. Sorry for the wait."

"Waiting's a pleasure when the company's so good."

"Um..." In my peripheral vision, I see Daenerys turn to regard Reza thoughtfully. "Thanks," I mutter, not knowing what else to say.

I start on Daenerys' drink, hoping that Reza will take the hint that I'm too busy to talk. (Even if I do feel a regretful pang at not being able to chat to Daenerys while I work.)

"So." Okay, he didn't take the hint. "I was wondering..."

He trails off. I wait for him to continue, fighting the urge to hunch over as I lock the head onto the machine and start the drip. The silence soon starts to feel awkward, however, tense in a way that makes the skin between my shoulder-blades prickle and crawl, so eventually (well, after a handful of seconds), I just have to break it.

"Yes?" I ask. Well, squeak. Sometimes (often) I really hate my voice.

Reza clears his throat.

"I was, ah, wondering if perhaps you'd like to come to the cinema with me? Maybe tonight?"

I freeze.

"Um," says my mouth, without any help from my brain. "I don't..."

"I was thinking the Showcase on Redfield Way. Do you know it?" I nod without looking at him. "Great! We could go for something to eat beforehand. Or afterwards, maybe." He sounds a lot less hesitant now, picking up conversational steam. "Whatever you want. There are a few decent restaurants near there."

"Um," I say again, mechanically continuing to pour syrups and check the milk temperature.

"Is tonight good? I was thinking maybe around seven? Either we could meet there, or I could pick you up. Whichever you prefer. Whereabouts do you live?"

Say you're not interested. Say you're busy. Say anything.

"City Road," I mumble.

Anything but that.

"Really? Cool. Not that far from the cinema. I know a few people who live around there, actually. Small world, hey?"

"I suppose." I can hardly even hear my own voice over the sound of the coffee machine hissing and burbling away.

"So, shall I pick you up at seven? Your house is practically on my way, so it makes sense."

"Um!" Even at barely louder than a whisper, my own ears can hear the panic in my voice. I don't think Reza does, though. He's asking me about films, now; asking which I'd prefer out of all the available options.

Is he just assuming I'll say yes? Or, does he think I already have? Is that what he took from my strangled mumbling?

Maybe it won't be so bad. Maybe he means 'go out' like 'go out as friends'. Maybe that's all this is. Maybe Ygritte is wrong.

I look up, and he's suddenly leaning in close, reaching... reaching for my hand? And the look in his eyes is a little soft, a little hopeful.

She isn't wrong.

Ygritte isn't wrong.

Reza likes me. He *like*-likes me.

Oh god.

What do I do?

I freeze, my gaze flicking around in panic, looking for a way out, looking for help.

Daenerys is looking at me, puzzled concern in her eyes.

And then suddenly, unexpectedly, she smiles.

"Sorry to interrupt," she says, not sounding sorry at all. "Sansa, do you want to call off tonight's meeting about the Radford Lights project?

I stare at her for a moment, wondering what she's talking about, wondering if I've forgotten something, wondering what I've messed up *this* time and if she's going to be angry.

And then the realisation suddenly hits me like a tonne of bricks.

For once, there's a light at the end of the tunnel and it isn't an oncoming train.

She's giving me a way out.

Reza looks to Daenerys, and then back to me, frowning in confusion. (Or annoyance?)

"Sansa?" he asks.

My throat is so dry I have to swallow a couple of times before I speak. I take a step backwards, ostensibly to reach for a clean cloth. (Really, it's to get out of range. Even though I'm sure it's not necessary. Not this time. I'm sure.)

I address my first words to Daenerys. "No, that's okay," I say. I hope my voice doesn't sound as wobbly as I feel. Turning to Reza, I offer him what I hope is an appropriately rueful smile. "I'm afraid I have plans tonight," I say softly, mentally crossing my fingers at the fib. "Sorry."

Part of me, the part that wants to say yes, that wants to please, that wants to just keep things peaceful, almost makes me add 'maybe another time.' Luckily, I manage to choke the words back, biting the side of my tongue so hard that it hurts.

"Oh." Reza sounds disappointed. (Not angry. Not mean. Not angry.) "Maybe another time?"

"Um, maybe." I just can't bring myself to say I'm not interested. I can't. "I'm... I am pretty busy at the moment." Which is about as close as I can get to actually saying no.

I guess it isn't really all that close.

"Oh," he says again, but then he brightens. "Maybe we can talk about it on Wednesday?"

"Wednesday?" I ask, confused.

"Archery practice. You haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Oh no. I mean: Oh. No. I... haven't forgotten." I've been trying to forget, hoping he would. "I might be needed here, though."

"Well, if you can make it, that would be great. If not, there'll be other times." He gives me a smile, even though it doesn't quite match the sheer wattage of earlier. "Thanks for the coffee, Sansa. Bye for now."

"You're welcome. Bye."

And then he's gone.

And I can breathe again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poster's note: For those who might be interested (Hotladykisses) excerpts from Sansa's scrawlings can be found [here](http://tamoline.livejournal.com/51323.html) . (Kitty wrote them before deciding that bad writing is just bad, and including them wouldn't improve the story at all.)


	5. Chapter 5

I set the cup carefully down on the saucer, relieved when they don't rattle against each other. The way my heart is racing, it feels like I should be shaking like a leaf. Whipped cream next. And maybe it isn't quite as neat as it could be, but that's nothing a quick wipe with a clean cloth won't solve. Finally, sprinkles. Cinnamon, not chocolate. Plus hundreds and thousands. (A little strange on something coffee-based, but it's probably not the strangest thing she's ever asked for.)

And... done.

"There you go," I say, smiling up at Daenerys. "Sorry for the wait."

"You didn't keep me waiting at all," she says, reassuringly. "I don't expect you to conjure up a drink instantaneously."

"I suppose not."

I feel my pulse start to slow to something approaching normal levels, suddenly becoming aware of the ache in the back of my neck as the muscles there finally begin to relax.

Daenerys doesn't retake her seat right away, lingering by the counter as she sips her coffee. I tidy up the workstation. Ygritte is dealing with another customer at the moment, so there's going to be an order coming through any minute now.

(I'm actually a little glad Ygritte is otherwise occupied. It gives me some time to compose myself before her inevitable questions about how it went with Reza.)

Daenerys glances around surreptitiously, almost shiftily, then wipes up stray dribble of cream with her finger and sucks the digit clean. I pretend to be engrossed in my tidying. I wouldn't want to make her feel self-conscious, after all.

(And I certainly wouldn't want her to think I'm watching her.)

"I hope you didn't mind me butting in just now," says Daenerys when her mouth is no longer full. "But you looked like you needed a lifeline. The drink's good, by the way. Like always."

"Um, thanks. And you weren't butting in," I hasten to reassure her. "I appreciated your help, thank you."

"You're welcome."

She looks like she's going to say something else, but then apparently changes her mind. I continue to go through the motions of cleaning, very conscious of her silent presence.

It leaves me feeling... conflicted.

She leans against the counter, eyeing me thoughtfully.

"Are you okay?" she asks. Her eyes narrow. "Was that person bothering you?"

"No. No, he wasn't," I hasten to reassure her. "Not really."

Well, he was, but that wasn't really his fault. It was mine. If I wasn't so pathetic, I'd be able to cope with something as simple as being asked out by a guy, even one I'm not actually interested in. I'd be able to tell him 'thanks, but no thanks' politely but firmly, and we'd both just go on with our lives.

She looks at me for a moment, maybe giving me a chance to continue speaking, if I want to.

I don't.

What would I say?

"Archery?" she asks eventually, the expression on her face one I can't easily figure out.

"Pardon me?"

God, I sounded *just* like my mother then. Oh, the horror. The horror.

"You're taking up archery?"

"No way!" The words burst out before my mind has quite caught up with my mouth. "I mean, maybe," I stutter, my cheeks flaming once again. "I kind of told Reza I'd give it a try," I find myself adding.

"Reza's the guy who just asked you out?" I nod miserably. Daenerys frowns, tapping her fingers in a staccato rhythm on the counter. "And you don't want to learn archery?" I shake my head, still not able to find my voice. Her fingers still and she wraps her hands around her mug, although she doesn't take another drink yet. "So, why don't you tell him that?" she asks, simply.

I shoot her a look I only hope isn't as panicky as I feel right now.

"But I already told him I'd go," I explain, willing her to understand. "I can't just back out. It would be rude."

Her frown deepens.

"Not if you explain your reasons. Just tell him you've thought about it, and realised that it isn't for you. Simple as that."

Maybe for her. It never feels that simple, though. (It hasn't for a long time.)

"I guess," I mutter.

"Order up," says Ygritte cheerfully, sticking the slip of paper to the board. She leans in close to nudge me companionably and whisper: "I'm looking forward to hearing how it went, before turning back to her conversation with the customer.

I swallow a sigh as I get on with the order. (Green tea. Unusual for this place, but not exactly difficult. Not exactly something I need to focus all my attention on.)

(That's almost a pity. I could do with a distraction right about now.)

Daenerys seems content to stand there and drink her coffee while I make the tea. By the time I glance back over, it's half gone. I'm amazed she hasn't burned her mouth. She sets her cup down as I glance over at her, and I wince internally in anticipation of more questions (more reproach). Like: why didn't I just tell Reza I don't want to go out with him? But what she says is:

"You know, we probably should have a quick meeting about the project." It takes me a moment to recall what she's talking about, shifting mental gears with a grinding that feels like it should be audible. "I've e-mailed you the relevant information, but it probably would be easier to go through it in person."

She seems to be expecting a response, so I nod.

"That makes sense."

"Good." She smiles, and I find myself standing up a little straighter, even smiling back at her. "Some of us are getting together tonight to discuss things. If you come along, I could introduce you to them at the same time; kill two birds with one stone." Her expression turns a touch rueful. "It's maybe throwing you in at the deep end a little bit, but there's only going to be a handful of people there. And they're generally a friendly bunch. Honest."

I might be more convinced by that 'friendly' if she hadn't felt the need to add 'honest' at the end.

"When is it?" I ask, more to give myself time to think than anything else.

"Eight-thirty, in my house in Beeston."

"Oh." I tap Ygritte on the arm and hand the tea to her to pass onto the customer, then turn back to Daenerys. "I'm afraid I don't finish here until eight-thirty."

I'm a little startled to realise that I actually feel disappointed about that.

"That's okay," she says cheerfully. "We hardly ever start on time and even if tonight is one of the rare exceptions, it'll give us the chance to get the boring stuff out of the way before you arrive."

I consider that for a moment.

"I guess I could get there by nine or so if I take the bus. Nine-thirty at the outside, if that's not too late."

"Does that mean you'll come? If it helps to sweeten the deal, there'll be food."

"Okay. I'll be there."

"Great!" She positively beams at me, like she's actually pleased I've said yes. "Hang on a sec." Fishing out her phone, she fiddles with it for a moment or two. "There." My phone beeps to signal an incoming text-message. "I've just texted you the address. It's pretty easy to find, but let me know if you need directions."

"I have a map," I say, and she nods. (I don't tell her it's an actual, physical A to Z, rather than an app or route finder or something like that. That risks letting her know that I only have a *stupid* phone, and that I can't afford a smart one. I don't want her to pity me. Well, no more than she no doubt already does.) "Shall I text you when I actually leave here? Then you can let me know if it's going to be too late."

"Good idea. If we order dinner when you're getting on the bus, it should arrive just after you do. Is pizza okay?"

"Yes, that's fine." I hesitate over asking the obvious, embarrassing question, but decide to go ahead anyway. "Um, how much cash should I bring?"

I don't like carrying around more money than I'm likely to need. Less risk of accidentally going over budget that way. And, speaking of budget, I probably shouldn't really be allowing myself the indulgence of take-away food. But as long as I'm good for the rest of the month it should be alright.

(Anyway, I wouldn't want Daenerys and her friends to think I'm cheap.)

"Oh, don't worry about it. The rule of these meetings is that the organisers provide the food." She grins. "It's supposed to be an incentive for everyone else to show up."

"Are you sure? I wouldn't want to impose."

"It's no imposition," she says firmly. I can't help feeling a little relieved. (Even though I also feel a little guilty for not protesting more. Not guilty enough to turn down free pizza though, apparently.) "So, do you have any preferences?"

"Excuse me?"

"For the pizza. Any requests, or allergies, or anything I should know about before we order? Our usual place doesn't have that much variety, I'm afraid, but their pizzas are very good."

"Um, I'm sure I'll be fine with whatever you want to order."

I manage to muster up a smile. It's actually not that hard, even with the lump in my stomach that comes from knowing I'm going to be meeting a bunch of strangers in a few hours. Strangers who all know each other already. But I'm sure it'll be fine. They're Daenerys' friends, after all. I'm sure that they're all nice people.

Anyway, they'll be discussing Project business, so maybe I won't even have to say anything much.

"You're not vegetarian or anything?"

"No."

"Just thought I'd make absolutely sure. Okay, then." She nods and smiles. "Well, I suppose I'd better get some more work done before I have to leave." She sighs and picks up her cup and saucer. "I will see you later."

"See you later," I echo.

I watch her as she heads back to her seat, feeling a little off-balance. First I'm asked out on a date (oh god), and now I'm going to a committee meeting for a project I've volunteered to help out with. At Daenerys' house. With her friends.

It's been a funny old day, that's for sure.

And it's not over yet.

 

I take a deep breath and knock firmly on the door. No turning back now. (Well, technically I could just leg it before anyone answers, but I'm not going to do that. No matter how much I'm tempted to all of a sudden.)

I hear a murmur of voices from inside, and an unfamiliar female voice calls out: "Just a minute."

I wait.

A few moments later, the door opens to reveal a smiling, dark-haired girl. Woman, rather. Her *very* low-cut peasant blouse leaves no doubt whatsoever about that. (I resist the sudden ridiculous urge to cross my arms self-consciously in front of my own, rather more modest décolletage.) Her eyes twinkle good-humouredly as she looks me up and down.

"Hello there. You must be Sansa."

It isn't quite a question, but I nod anyway.

"Yes. Sorry I'm late."

She waves a hand airily. "Oh, you're fine. Don't worry. It's barely quarter past nine and we haven't even really started yet. I don't know why Dany even thought that was a possibility." She rolls her eyes, smiling side-wise at me like she's sharing a joke. I smile back uncertainly. "Anyway," she says. "Come in, come in. Let's not keep you standing out there on the doorstep."

"Thank you."

She stands aside to let me step past her, into a white-walled, grey-carpeted hallway. The carpet is the kind of plain, hard-wearing stuff I've come to realise is pretty much a standard fixture of student housing. Mother would approve.

As the woman -- housemate? committee member? friend? -- turns to close the door, I can't help admiring the fall of her hair; the way it swirls around her shoulders. Mine is so thin and flyaway. I can never get it to shine like that. She turns back to face me again, and I find myself staring unexpectedly straight into her cleavage. I jerk my gaze upwards, fighting the urge to blush and apologise.

Well, I fight the urge to apologise, anyway. I don't have any control over the blushing.

(Is it my imagination, or does she seem amused?)

(It's probably just my imagination.)

(But at least she doesn't seem annoyed.)

I'm just trying to pluck up the courage to ask her name when she chooses to enlighten me.

"I'm Doreah, Dany's girlfriend. Pleased to meet you."

Girlfriend. Dany.

*Girlfriend.*

I can almost hear the snap of something breaking inside my brain as I try to process the bombshell Doreah just dropped so casually.

Girlfriend? Doreah is Danerys' -- Dany's -- girlfriend?

Daenerys likes girls?

With a start, I realise that the silence is starting to stretch just a little too long for politeness' sake.

"Nice to meet you too, Doreah," I manage.

"Oh, call me Dor. Everyone does."

"Like the Opener," I murmur absently, still too busy trying to work through the idea of Daenerys having a *girlfriend* to keep my inner geek quiet.

"Huh?"

"Oh, um, there's a character? In a really old TV mini-series called Neverwhere?" My voice is doing the really annoying lilting up at the end of a sentence thing that it often does when I'm nervous, turning everything I say into a question. I hate it. I try to make it stop. "It's by Neil Gaiman?" Apparently I'm not trying hard enough. I redouble my efforts. "There's also a book." Better. "And a radio series that came out recently." Beside the point. Stop *waffling*, Sansa! "Anyway, there's a character in it called Door. She... opens things."

"Oh, I see." Doreah -- Dor -- stops looking at me completely gone-out, and nods sagely. I cringe inside at what she must think of the weirdo that her *girlfriend* has invited along to this meeting. Much to my surprise, she gives me a friendly smile. "You're another one of them."

Now it's my turn to look at her gone out.

"Um, one of 'them'?"

"A fantasy nut." I half wonder if I should be insulted (upset), but her smile and playful tone make it hard to do anything but share in her clear good humour. "Are you a LARPer as well?"

I quickly shake my head.

"No. No, I'm not."

"Heh. Give it time." Dor leans in towards me and touches me lightly on the arm. "Dany's probably just biding her time so she doesn't scare you off. She's even persuaded *me* to go along a couple of times, and I'm the last person who'd be interested in running around the campus at night pretending to fight monsters."

"Oh."

(Would it be stupid to be disappointed that Daenerys *hasn't* tried to recruit me for her LARP group?)

(Probably.)

(But that doesn't stop me.)

"Anyway, we'd better head on in. The others will be wondering what we're doing out here."

Dor winks at me, and for some inexplicable reason, I feel my face heat again. Luckily, she doesn't comment on my sudden resemblance to a beetroot, turning to lead me down the short hallway towards the sound of voices.

I follow her into what seems to be a living room, only just managing not to bump into her as she stops just inside the door. Peering curiously over her shoulder, my first impression one of space and comfort and colour. Bright rugs partially cover the somewhat industrial-looking carpet, and there are posters and pictures on the walls. The sofa doesn't match the assortment of armchairs, but they all look soft and inviting. A table has been pushed against the wall, apparently being used as storage space for various papers and books.

It seems... homey. And studenty.

I like it.

Daenerys is sitting on one of the armchairs, her head up and her back very straight, something about her posture making me think of queens and thrones. She doesn't look up as we step through the door. Her attention is focused on two of the room's other occupants.

"-not saying we should give up," one of the objects of her attention is saying. He's tall -- or, he would be if he was standing -- with close-cropped reddish brown hair and a beard. He sounds... irritated. (My pulse speeds up a little, and I have to fight not to hesitate on the threshold of the room.) "Just that we should reprioritise our objectives."

The man he's talking to -- short and solidly built, with thick black hair pulled back in a ponytail -- makes a disparaging noise.

"What does that mean when it's at home?"

"It means that what we're doing isn't working, so we need to take some time to rethink our strategy."

"Right, fine. Petitions and *bureaucracy* aren't working." The word practically drips with contempt, the speaker pulling a face like it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. "But that means we need to step things up a notch, not dial them back." He leans forward, thumping his leg for emphasis. "We should be picketing the council offices. We should be organising demonstrations and marches. What we *need* are boots on the ground."

"What do you think this is, the eighties?" the first man scoffs.

"Gentlemen." Daenerys doesn't shout, but the two men instantly turn to look at her. "I don't think this is helping."

"This is our cue," Dor mutters to me, then strides boldly forward. I stumble a little as I try to keep up with her, caught off-guard by the sudden movement.

"Here's your latest victim, Dany. Sorry, *volunteer*," she says sweetly.

Daenerys frowns, but Dor heads off whatever protest she might have made by the simple expedient of leaning in and kissing her. Thoroughly. I quickly look away (I can't tear my eyes away), my face flaming like the surface of the sun. Ponytail is rolling his eyes in a way that manages to seem impatient yet fond, while Redbeard is looking distinctly... sour. I file that information away for later consideration.

"Hi, Sansa," Daenerys says, when Dor (finally) lets her surface for air. To my relief, Dor claims an armchair of her own, putting a little distance between the two of them. (Enough that I'll have some warning if she goes for another kiss, so I'll be able to look away in time.)

"Hello," I say, managing a small smile despite the combination of nervousness, shock and embarrassment roiling in my chest. "Sorry I'm a little late. I had to wait for the bus."

"That's alright." Daenerys' own smile warms me through, easing some of the tension inside. "We haven't really started yet. Take a seat, and I'll introduce you to everyone."

The sofa is closer, but I make my way to one of the chairs instead, wobbling a little as I try to avoid sinking all the way into it. I end up perching a little awkwardly on the edge. (Better a little discomfort now than an undignified scramble to get up again later.)

"The two gentlemen on the sofa are Jorah and Barristan."

Redbeard and Ponytail, respectively. Jorah gives me a polite smile, but his attention is clearly on Daenerys. (Which I can totally understand. Something about her is just so... compelling.) Barristan nods at me.

"Welcome to the madhouse, Sansa," he says affably. "Call me Stan."

"Hello," I say again.

"The lady over in the corner is Missandei."

I'm ashamed to admit that I hadn't even noticed her. The argument (and Daenerys, and then that *kiss*) had drawn pretty much all of my attention. Missandei turns out to be a girl with a mass of dark curls and a serious expression. She looks up from the book in her lap.

"Nice to meet you, Sansa," she says softly. There's a slight accent to her words that I can't quite place.

"Nice to meet you too," I reply, glad that my manners seem to function on autopilot. (That's something I can thank Mother for, I suppose.)

"We're missing a couple of people, but this is basically the core of the project committee," says Daenerys.

"What happened to Daario and Xaro, anyway?" Missandei asks curiously. "I thought they were supposed to be here too."

"They had other plans."

Danerys sounds faintly irritated. Jorah, on the other hand, actually seems... pleased?

"It doesn't matter," he says, meeting Daenerys' gaze. "We don't really need them anyway. And we'll probably get far more done without them here."

"Like we have so far, you mean?" From anyone else, that would probably come across as snappish. Maybe even harsh. From Daenerys, though, it just sounds like an observation. (Okay, maybe a slightly snappish one. With just a touch of sarcasm, perhaps. Alright, maybe more than a touch of sarcasm.) "Never mind," she continues, shaking her head. She flashes a rueful smile over in my direction. "Sorry, Sansa. I'm afraid you're not seeing us at our best tonight."

I start to fumble for words to assure her that it's fine, really, that everything seems fine to me, but Dor cuts across my hesitant muttering with a pert:

"Speak for yourself, Honey."

Daenerys rolls her eyes.

"Fine, okay. *You're* at your best, Doreah, as always."

"That's more like it," Dor sniffs, then winks at me. "I've got her well-trained."

I choke a little. For a moment, I am *so* glad I'm not sitting in Dor's place; that I'm not on the receiving end of the death glare Daenerys turns on... on her girlfriend. (For a moment, just a moment, it feels like there's a weight on my chest, like it's getting hard to breathe.) But then I see the amusement in Daenerys' eyes, the way that she can't hold the glare for long before it melts into a fond expression.

(There's no anger there, nor even real irritation. It's all just in good fun.)

"*Anyway*," Daenerys says firmly, her tone saying clearly that it's time to get back to business. "The pizzas should be here soon. Let's at least try to get the important things settled before they arrive, shall we?" She doesn't wait for an answer before continuing. "I've been looking at the numbers..."

 

The pizzas turn out to be really good. I still feel faintly guilty about not paying my share, but not guilty enough not to eat my fill. I actually end up eating more than I intended, but there's plenty of it, and the others keep encouraging me to have more. Anyway, I'm sure Jorah and Stan eat as much between them as the rest of us put together. *And* there's still plenty left over.

I start to relax a little as the evening goes on. Daenerys was right -- they do all seem pretty friendly. It also helps that I quickly realise I can get away with hardly opening my mouth at all. (Which, thankfully, makes it much harder for me to put my foot in it.) I spend most of my time just watching and listening. 

(And, maybe, weaving them into the story in my head.)

The time passes relatively quickly, and I'm startled to realise it's almost half past midnight when the meeting finally wraps up.

I'm going to be so dead tomorrow morning.

Even so, I linger a little, hoping to be able to talk to Daenerys a little before I leave, but Stan and Jorah seem to be occupying her attention. From the snatches of conversation that drift over, it sounds like they're planning some kind of military campaign. Maybe it's something to do with their LARP thing.

(Not that I'm at all envious or anything.)

(Except I am. I totally, totally am.)

Dor's already taken her leave of the group, disappearing off upstairs saying something about heading to bed. I'm not sure if she lives here, or if she's just staying the night. (Either way, she's probably sharing a bed with Daenerys. But I'm not thinking about that right now. I'm not. I'm *not*.) I know Missandei lives here, though. She's quietly and efficiently going around the room gathering up discarded pizza boxes and the other assorted detritus of the evening. I give her a hand.

"Thank you," she says.

"You're welcome," I say softly.

"It's nice to have help for once," she mutters, flashing me a quick, wry smile before returning to what seems to be her customary seriousness.

I don't really know what to say to that, so I just make a vague, noncommittal 'hmm' sound and get on with it. Between the two of us, the clearing up doesn't take that long at all. We don't talk much, beyond a few questions and pleasantries, but that's fine. The silence doesn't feel awkward at all. In what seems like almost no time, Missandei is bidding me goodnight, and Jorah and Stan are leaving.

Now it's just Daenerys and me.

"So, how did you find the meeting?" she asks.

"It was..." What's the word? "Interesting."

She laughs.

"That's one word for it, I suppose. Thank you for coming. It's good to have a fresh point of view once in a while, and you had some good ideas."

I did? That's news to me. It's nice of her to say that, though.

"I don't know about that, but thank you." I dither awkwardly for a moment or two. "Anyway, I guess it's getting kind of late. I suppose I should let you get to bed."

(With Dor.)

(Oh god. Don't let me blush. *Please* don't let me blush.)

"Are you going to be alright getting home?" Daenerys asks me, frowning a little. "Do you want me to call you a taxi?"

I feel warmed by her concern.

"No, it's fine," I assure her. "It's not that far, and the walk will do me good."

I've never had a particular problem with walking late at night. (It's a long time since I've believed that monsters only come out in the dark.) I actually find it relaxing. And it isn't as if I have to go through any dodgy areas, like Radford.

More practically, I just don't have the money to waste on frivolous taxi journeys.

"Well, if you're sure..." She doesn't sound convinced, but she doesn't try to persuade me otherwise.

(I realise that I was already working out the location of the nearest cash machine, on the assumption that she would. And that I would give in. Just like always. God, that's pathetic.)

"Anyway," she continues. "On a completely different note, there's something I'd like to ask you."

I blink stupidly at her as I try (and fail) to process her words.

"Oh?" I manage to squeeze out, relieved beyond measure when my voice doesn't squeak.

"I don't know if you know this, but I'm a member of the university roleplaying games society." She pauses, clearly waiting for a response.

I nod.

"Yes, I know."

"Well, we hold a live action game on Saturday evenings, and I was wondering if you'd like to come along."

She pauses again, and I *want* to respond, I really do, but I can't seem to make my voice work. It's completely the opposite problem that I had with Reza, because I want to say yes; yes, of course I would. Because I've been hoping for this ever since Dor first mentioned it. I mean, pretending to be someone else for a few hours? Dressing up in costume to fight imaginary monsters? If that isn't right up my alley, I don't know what is.

But I'm so terrified of making a fool of myself, of coming across as too eager, too *desperate*, that it's tying my tongue in knots.

Say something, Sansa! Say yes. Say *yes*.

"Um, what would it involve?"

God, I sound so timid. ("What? What was that? Pardon? Nope, still can't hear you. Louder, Sansa, I don't speak Mouse.") I hate it.

"Well, the short version is that it's like 'let's pretend,' but with rules." She grins at me and I manage to smile back. (Although mine is undoubtedly a pale, watery thing next to hers.) "The people running the game create the setting, including all the incidental characters, and put together the plot. You come up with a character you want to play and, well, play them. That's pretty much it. The 'live action' part just means you actually act out what your character does, rather than just describing it. The setting is medieval-ish, with magic; a basic sword and sorcery-type fantasy world. The campaign so far has been mostly standalone adventures -- you know, the typical monster-slaying and McGuffin hunts -- but we're starting to get the first hints of meta-plot. No doubt we'll be saving the world in epic fashion by the campaign's end."

I'm starting to wonder if she doesn't actually need to breathe, but she finally seems to have reached the end of her spiel. 

I search my mind for something intelligent to say.

"It... sounds a little like improvisational theatre."

"I suppose it is, a little." She looks like she's actually considering that, so maybe it wasn't as stupid an observation as I worried it might be. (That, or she's just being polite.) "Have you done any of that before?"

I nod.

"A little, back in school. Not for a long time now, though."

A long, long time. Not in actual years, I guess, but it certainly feels that way.

(I don't really want to think about it. So I don't.)

"Great! I'm sure that experience will stand you in good stead if you decide to come along."

Wait... 'If?' I thought I already... No. No, I guess I didn't.

"It sounds like fun," I manage to say. "I'd love to give it a go."

She looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"You're not just saying that to be polite, are you?" she asks, and I can't quite figure out her tone. (I'm already starting to cringe before I process the fact that, whatever's going through her head, she doesn't seem to be annoyed.)

"No, that's not... I mean, I do want to try it out. Really."

But I can't say that I'd never agree to do something just because I suck at saying no. Not only is that completely untrue, but she *knows* it's completely untrue.

"Tell you what," she says, not unkindly. "Think it over, and if you are interested in coming along on Saturday, let me know. You've got my phone number and e-mail address. And I'm sure I'll be stopping by the coffee shop sometime between now and then. Especially since the coffee seems to have gotten much better lately."

She smiles warmly at me, and just like that I'm not feeling flustered any more. I think I'm even standing taller.

"I'll do that," I say, and I actually sound like a normal person for once. (Well, as normal as I ever get, anyway.) "But I really am interested in coming along. I'm not just saying that to be polite."

"That's good," she says. "But better safe than sorry, n'est-ce pas?"

She speaks French? Of course she speaks French. Why wouldn't she? For some reason, I dredge up some of my own (very rusty) French to reply.

"Bien sur."

She looks startled for a moment, then chuckles ruefully.

"I just lapsed into French didn't I?" I nod, but she doesn't seem to need the confirmation. "Sorry about that. It happens sometimes when I'm tired. Or stressed."

"It's okay. I understood you."

"Just as well it wasn't Berber," she sighs, and then shakes her head. "Anyway, that's probably a sign that I've rambled on for long enough, especially since you're walking home. Sorry about that."

"You don't need to apologise," I hasten to assure her. "I did ask, after all. It's okay. Really."

I really, really, *really* want to know more about her sudden and hitherto unsuspected talent with languages. Is she bilingual? Trilingual, even? She doesn't have an accent that I've noticed. It feels like I have a thousand and one questions just begging to be answered.

But... this isn't the time. (I definitely don't want to outstay my welcome.)

Poot.

Maybe tomorrow.

"Assuming that you're still interested in LARPing after sleeping on the idea, I can take you through the basics of the system and help you put together a character if you want."

"I'd like that," I say.

"Great!" She smiles at me again, and then suddenly yawns, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. (I swear, she even manages to make that look elegant. Somehow. Maybe she learned it at the same secret training academy I think Shae must have attended. I wonder where I can sign up.) "Oh, excuse me."

I think that's my cue.

"I should probably get going," I say. "Thank you for inviting me over. And... And for the rescue, earlier."

"You're welcome. On both accounts."

We say our goodbyes, and I begin my weary trek homewards. (Okay, it's not really that far. But I think I'm allowed a little poetic license every now and then. However, I've barely gone more than a handful of steps when Daenerys calls to me from the doorway.

"Oh, Sansa?"

I pause mid-stride, turning to face her with eyebrows raised.

"Yes?"

"I probably should have mentioned this earlier, but there's one more thing that you need to know about the LARP group."

"What is it?"

I don't think I've seen that particular grin on her face before. If I had to pick one word to describe it, the one I'd choose would be (beautiful) mischievous.

I like that look on her.

(I *like* that look on her.)

"Dressing up is *strongly* encouraged."

"Oh."

Oh.

Just what am I letting myself in for?


	6. Chapter 6

"You're doing *what*?!"

In retrospect, I wonder if maybe I shouldn't have given Asha some other reason why I can't cover the Saturday evening shift this week. Working on coursework, perhaps, or even washing my hair. Anything but the truth.

Oh, well. It's too late now.

"Um, LARPing," I offer, even though I'm more or less sure that the question is rhetorical. "It starts at seven, so I'm afraid I won't be able to-"

"I know when it starts!" she almost bellows. In my peripheral vision, I see customers start to look over at us curiously, and I cringe inwardly at the thought of the scene we're making. She glowers at me like I've just insulted her mother, or maybe her boat, and I try not to wilt beneath the force of her stare. Her mouth opens again, and I cringe in anticipation of another outburst, but the words that come out are almost... soft. "So, you've gone to the dark side," she murmurs.

"It's not... I don't... I..."

I stutter helplessly, uselessly, for a moment or two before I make myself stop. I have absolutely no clue what to say. What is her *problem*, anyway? So she doesn't like LARP. Fine, whatever. It's not like I'm actually trying to drag her along with me! (I quake a little inside at the very thought of it.)

"*Fine*," she growls, shaking her head. "If you're going to let *her* corrupt you into bad habits, the least I can do is try to balance the scales a little. Be a good influence." Asha as a *good* influence? I almost go cross-eyed trying to visualise that. "You're coming with me to training on Sunday."

I blink stupidly at her, trying to process her words.

"Um, what?"

She rolls her eyes.

"Living History Soc," she explains impatiently. "We train on Sundays. This weekend, you're coming with me."

Her tone brooks no argument. I try anyway, opening my mouth to protest -- I was going to *study* on Sunday -- but the most I can manage is a weak and tremulous:

"But..."

"What?" she barks in response, and I find myself chickening out.

(Well, there's a surprise.)

("How can someone so tall and gangling have so little backbone? It's pathetic. You're pathetic. Maybe if you didn't act like such a *victim* all the time, you wouldn't get treated like one.")

"I don't have any equipment or anything," I say instead, timidly.

"You can borrow some. There are always some spares lying around for newbies. We start at one o' clock. I'll pick you up from your house at twelve." She glares at me until I nod. "Any questions?"

"Um..."

Do I have to?

I don't say that out loud, no matter how much I'm tempted. Somehow, I don't think it would go down at all well. Anyway, would it really be so bad? I can't really see myself wearing armour and swinging a sword around, but the rest of it, the arts-and-crafty stuff, learning how to make things using proper historical techniques... Well, I've always thought that sounded kind of cool. Maybe if I suffer through a sword lesson or two, I'll actually get to do some of that.

Maybe.

I realise that I've already resigned myself to my fate.

I sigh inwardly and try to meet Asha's gaze with something like dignity.

"Do I need to bring anything?" I ask.

"Water," she says, nodding with what I tentatively think might be approval of my apparent obedience. "Swinging a sword around is thirsty work." Eep. "Wear clothes you can move in. If I think of anything else, I'll let you know." Grinning suddenly, startlingly, she claps me on the shoulder hard enough to stagger me. I manage to bite back a yelp. "Cheer up, Stark. I'll make a fighter of you yet."

Somehow, I doubt it.

I just hope she isn't too angry with me when I fall on my face.

And I can only pray that doesn't turn out to be literally.

 

Daenerys smiles at me as I set our cups down on the table. I smile back, feeling a tingle of excitement as I take a seat across from her and open my notepad. (I carefully make sure to turn to a page that isn't covered with scrawled story ideas and first drafts of scenes. I'd just *die* if she saw those. I would literally drop down dead of embarrassment.) I can't help but be aware of Asha's dark presence behind the counter, the silent rumble of disapproval emanating from her so strongly I'm almost surprised not to see actual storm clouds, but for once it doesn't faze me.

Anyway, there aren't any rules to say we can't take our lunch breaks in the shop. Or that we can't take them with customers. Or that those customers can't buy our lunches for us and help us make characters for Saturday's LARP.

(I do feel a little guilty about letting Daenerys pay for lunch, but she insisted.)

"Thanks," Daenerys says.

"You're welcome," I reply. "Shae's going to bring the food over in a minute." I hesitate for a moment. "Are you sure I can't pay you back for lunch? I mean, you're already giving up your time to help me. I should be buying *you* lunch."

"Nonsense," she says firmly. "It's my treat. I insist." She leans in and lowers her voice. "You already said you wouldn't normally buy your lunch from here and, frankly, I can see why. It's not the best, or the cheapest. You're just lucky the coffee and the company are so good, or you might end up losing my custom."

"I'd hate to lose you," I blurt out, and then blush when I realise how that must sound. "As a customer, I mean," I clarify.

"Just a customer? Is that all I am to you?" For a moment, my mind whites out with panic, with the fear that I've said something wrong, messed everything up, spoiled things. But then I register that her eyes are twinkling with amusement, with humour. She puts a hand to her brow mock-dramatically, the corners of her mouth twitching upwards slightly.

She's joking.

Of course she's joking, but maybe...

Maybe.

Without really consciously deciding to speak, I find myself asking: "How about a friend?"

I almost blush at my boldness, but Daenerys just nods and smiles.

"That's better. Friends." We're friends? We're friends! (If she really means it. If I don't say something wrong and drive her away. If. If. If.) She takes a sip of coffee, and then sits up straighter in her chair, her demeanour becoming business-like. Not that she was actually slouching, of course. She really does have excellent posture. (Unlike me.) "So, do you know what kind of character you want to play?"

I nod, hoping I don't look as shy as I feel.

(I may have spent some time looking through the information on the roleplaying game society's website. I... may possibly have done that as soon as I got back from Daenerys' that same night. Even though it was ridiculous o' clock in the morning and I had nine 'o clock lectures the next day.)

(I... may have been somewhat zombie-like the next day.)

"I have some ideas." I flip back a couple of pages in my pad, glancing over my notes. "Let's see... A former noblewoman seeking revenge on the people who destroyed her family. Or maybe she just chose a life of adventure in order to escape an arranged marriage. I haven't decided yet. But she's definitely turned her back on noble society to become an adventurer, whatever her reasons."

"Okay, that's a good start." She nods encouragingly, but I can't help worrying that she secretly thinks the idea is stupid. "Did you have a particular character class in mind?"

"I was thinking some kind of magic user." Because I don't think that swinging swords is really my forte, somehow. (And I'm very deliberately not thinking about Sunday, or I'll start to panic.) "There seem to be a few different types, though, and I'm not entirely sure how different they'd be to play."

"Okay, let's start there then. There are two kinds of magic in the game setting: divine and arcane. The differences between them are..."

Much to my surprise, putting together my character actually doesn't take that long at all. There are a few times when I struggle to make a decision, but with a few patient questions and suggestions, Daenerys usually manages to get me back on track. Far sooner than I expected, I am in proud possession of my very first LARP character.

I could almost clap my hands in glee.

Daenerys looks up at me with a smile.

"Okay, I think we're done. Are you happy with that? No changes you want to make?"

I quickly scan through the short document.

"It looks fine to me."

"Great! I'll send it to the GMs to look over. I can't imagine they'll have any problems with it, though, so on Saturday you should be pretty much good to go." She types briefly. "There. I've copied you in on the e-mail."

"Thanks," I say, all of a sudden feeling a little overwhelmed. This is actually happening. It's actually starting to feel like more than just an academic exercise. On Saturday, for a few hours at least, I'm going to be someone else entirely. Timid Sansa Stark will become the high mage Alanna Stone, bold adventurer.

I can't wait.

 

"So, you have a busy weekend planned," Shae says, conversationally.

"Apparently," I agree, trying to hide the way my heart leaps and then lurches in my chest at the thought of Saturday and Sunday, respectively.

She studies me for a moment, and then glances around as if checking for eavesdroppers. I follow her lead, but there's no one nearby. Ygritte's sprawled on one of the sofas chatting to customers. Asha's in the back arguing with Mr Baelish. No one's waiting to be served right now. It's just the two of us behind the counter.

"Asha is in a foul mood today," she says carefully, keeping her voice low.

"I noticed," I mutter, trying not to cringe.

"I don't know..." She trails off mid-sentence, and then starts again. "I can speak with her if you want," she says.

I look at her, a little nonplussed.

"What about?"

"About having a temper tantrum when life doesn't immediately conform to her whims. About dragging you off to her silly re-enactment club whether or not you actually want to go. She needs to learn that she can't just bully people like that."

I think about that for a moment, about Shae confronting Asha on my behalf, and cold needles prickle their way over my skin.

"No, that's okay," I say hurriedly. "I'm fine. A re-enactment meeting sounds quite interesting, actually."

"Swinging swords around with a bunch of sweaty men in armour? Really?" Shae sounds sceptical.

"Well, maybe not that part so much. But the rest of it. The crafting and the costumes and the actual re-enactment parts."

"Hmm," she says, noncommittally. "Well, it's your weekend." She half-heartedly starts straightening the display of chocolates and biscuits, but a few moments later she stops and turns to me, leaning in close. "Listen," she says. "I know it's difficult not to get dragged into the drama sometimes, but you do not want to get stuck between Asha and Daenerys if you can help it. As you've undoubtedly noticed, the two of them have..." She grimaces. "Issues with each other."

I knew it!

I knew there was more to their story than a picky customer and an impatient barista. Or even debating opponents. Despite the way my stomach roils at the thought of yet more conflict, I can't help feeling a frisson of excitement in anticipation of finally getting the truth.

Except that Shae seems to have finished speaking, and I'm *still* hardly any wiser than I was before.

I give her a moment or two to see if she's going to say anything else, but she doesn't. I give into temptation and prompt her gently by asking:

"Issues?"

She shrugs.

"Strong personalities, quick tempers, opposing moral and political viewpoints and enough bloody-minded stubbornness to sink a battleship. As I said: issues."

That's not an answer. It's an evasion.

"But surely there's more to it than a simple personality clash?" I persist.

I can't let this go when the possibility of enlightenment is being dangled in front of me so temptingly. I just can't. I look pleadingly at Shae, hoping that she'll take pity on me.

With a heavy sigh, she leans in, lowering her voice to a whisper.

"They had kind of a... thing."

"A thing?" I whisper back, puzzled, but then the penny drops and I just stare at Shae, utterly pole-axed. "You mean, they had a *relationship*?"

And I thought Daenerys and Doreah were brain-breaking. Daenerys and *Asha*, though? I can't even begin to picture how that would work. My mind just rebels outright. Dimly, I become aware that Shae is speaking.

"-to Sansa, come in Sansa. Are you in there?"

She taps one finger lightly on my forehead, and I jump a little, blinking the world back into focus.

"Yes, fine, sorry," I mutter distractedly. I shake my head and make myself take a deep, calming breath. It doesn't really help. "I'm just a little... I don't... Wow."

Her gaze softens, and her lips quirk in a small, wry smile.

"Hard to believe, right?"

I nod vigorously.

"What- How- When *was* this? Was it recently?"

"It was when they were both first years, and that's pretty much all I know. Aside from the fact that it ended badly."

Well, duh.

I figured that part out all on my own.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?"

Because it explains so much.

Shae gives a liquid, expressive shrug.

"It's not really our business, is it? And can you imagine how Asha would react if she caught us gossiping about her?"

I... can. It's not pretty. Which raises another question.

"So, why tell me now?"

She sighs heavily.

"Because it looks like you've gone and landed yourself squarely in the middle of their *issues*. I thought you should probably know the context before they start fighting over you like a chew toy."

"But they're not fighting..."

My protest trails off mid-sentence when Shae arches an eyebrow at me.

"Tell me again what you're doing on Sunday and why."

Okay, maybe she has a point. I... don't know how I feel about that. Nervous, probably.

(Excited, maybe. No one's ever fought over me before.)

(No one's ever thought I was worth fighting for.)

"Anyway," she continues, when she's satisfied she's made her point. "You didn't hear any of this from me, okay?"

"Okay," I echo faintly, still trying to process all of this.

What kind of a minefield have I managed to step into here?

And why I am I suddenly feeling inspired to write?

 

"Hi Sansa."

"Hello Reza."

We smile awkwardly at each other.

"So, um..." He runs a hand through his hair, his gaze bouncing around the mostly empty shop before coming back to rest on me. "I was wondering: do you have a minute to talk?"

"Um..." I echo, stupidly.

I check the order board, but his slip is the only one on there. As I try to think of some excuse, Ygritte -- who is eavesdropping shamelessly -- leans over and grins slyly at me.

"Isn't it time for your break, Sansa?"

"But- But Shae..."

She's not back from her break yet, and we're supposed to stagger them so that only one of us is out at once. But Ygritte casually waves my half-formed objection away.

"She'll be back soon. Anyway, we're just about into the dead zone. I can hold the fort out here for a bit. You two run along and *talk*."

She winks suggestively at me, not even bothering to try to hide the action from Reza. My face immediately lights up like bonfire night, and I wish the ground would open up right now and swallow me whole. Reza shuffles uncomfortably from foot to foot.

"Can I buy you a coffee?" he asks.

I should say no. I'm going to say no, but Ygritte jumps in before I can make my throat release the words.

"What a gentleman!" she exclaims, nudging me. "It's a large mocha, right Sansa?"

An image flashes into my head: Daenerys licking whipped cream off one delicate finger. Despite everything, despite this utterly, absolutely, ridiculously awkward situation unfolding around me, my mouth starts to water a little.

"Medium, but with whipped cream, please," I say, resigned to the fact that it's going to be easier to accept than not. I make myself look up at Reza, plastering something that I hope is a suitably gracious smile on my face. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he says, smiling back with what looks like relief.

Ygritte practically shoves me out from behind the counter.

"I'll ring this up and make the drinks. You go and get ready. That way you can get to *talking* that much sooner."

"Thank you," I mutter, trying not to cringe visibly. "I'll be back in a minute, Reza."

With that, I flee.

I lock myself in the toilet, but it takes a few moments before I can catch my breath and focus on stopping my heart racing like a terrified rabbit.

I can do this. I can.

But what if he asks me out again? What if he asks me to come back to archery next week? What if..? What if..?

(What if he gets angry with me, and there's no one else around?)

No. It's going to be fine. Polite and firm, that's the ticket. I can do polite and firm.

I bet Daenerys can do it.

I bet Alanna Stone can do it.

I guess I'm just going to have to try my best.

Anyway. I can't hide in here forever.

Time to get this over with.

 

"How's your mocha?" Reza asks suddenly, breaking the uncomfortable silence. We're sitting on a bench in the town centre, a couple of streets over from the coffee shop, watching the people walk by.

"It's good, thank you." I take a sip, savouring the warmth and sweetness of the drink. Mainly the warmth. It's actually a little chilly out here, but I'm not about to suggest that we move back inside. The last thing I want to do is to have this conversation with Ygritte smirking at me over Reza's shoulder. "How's your latte?" I ask, politely.

"It's good." He shrugs, and then suddenly smiles. "Not as good as when you make it, though."

"Thanks," I say, managing to smile back at him. At least, I hope it looks like a smile.

Silence falls again.

"So," he says, another couple of sips later. "Archery was... interesting."

I grimace instinctively, and then glance up to see if he's noticed. From the rueful expression on his face, I'm guessing that he has.

"Interesting. Yes," I mutter.

That's certainly one word for it. Awkward. That's another. Like when it became clear that one of the people there was assuming that Reza and I were *together*. Humiliating would be another good word. Like when I could barely draw even one of the lightest bows. Or how about outright terrifying.

"You know," he muses thoughtfully. "I don't think I've ever seen that happen before. Or even heard about such a thing happening. I mean, what are the odds? The arrow missing the target completely, hitting the post holding up the net that's supposed to catch it, bouncing back up the range, ricocheting off the gallery railing and landing right at your feet!" He shakes his head, saluting me with his cup. "Wow."

"Don't remind me," I say, trying not to shudder.

"Hey, I'm sorry." He immediately sounds contrite. "I wasn't trying to make you feel bad. It was just a freak accident, that's all. Could've happened to anybody. Really."

I appreciate what he's trying to do, but it's not helping. It doesn't matter what he says, or how he tries to pass it off as 'just one of those things,' I know I made a complete fool of myself. My face burns just remembering it. I think about going back next week, about facing all those people, and it feels like I just shrivel inside. It's that feeling -- that queasy, vertiginous pressure in my stomach -- that actually gives me the courage to draw breath and speak.

"I don't... I'm not sure archery is for me."

"Are you sure? I mean, that was only your first time. And it really was a freak accident. I'm sure nothing like that will happen again. Really."

Even with the memories of Wednesday scalding my mind, I still feel the urge to acquiesce. But... But... (But what would Daenerys say if I told her I'd gone along out of politeness (fear) not once, but twice? She'd think I was pathetic and weak.)

(And she'd be right.)

I can't. I just can't.

"I'm sure." I make myself look up and meet Reza's gaze, even though my head feels as heavy as a rock. "It's not for me. Sorry."

"No need to apologise," he says quickly. "I just thought -- hoped -- you'd enjoy it, that's all. I'm sorry if I was too pushy." He gives me a rueful, lopsided smile. "Thank you for at least giving it a try."

"That's alright."

I thought I'd feel better after getting this out of the way, but I don't. Unease still sits like a stone in my stomach, weighing me down. The silence stretches like an elastic band, tension increasing to breaking point, like something's going to snap. I try to think of something else to say, but my mind goes blank.

I take another sip of my cooling mocha and stare blindly at the passers-by, searching for inspiration.

I jump a little as Reza clears his throat.

"Look, Sansa," he says, and then hesitates. "I don't... I mean, you know I like you, don't you?"

"Um," I practically whisper as my mind spins its wheels like a panicking hamster. "I guess."

I feel him shift on the bench and I know he's turned to look at me. I keep my eyes down and drink my mocha. Movement in my peripheral vision makes me jump and I turn to see him leaning forward, reaching out a hand towards me. I flinch involuntarily, almost flinging my cup aside, juggling it desperately as I try not to spill it over the pair of us. By the time I've wrestled it back under control, Reza has scooted all the way over to the other side of the bench, about as far away from me as it's possible to get without standing up, and is looking utterly, thoroughly miserable.

"Sorry," we both say, almost speaking in unison. We look at each other.

"I didn't mean to startle you," he says tentatively. He attempts a smile, but it's a pale and sickly shadow of his usual cheer. "Good reflexes there, though."

"Thanks." I don't try to smile back. I think mine would come out looking even worse than his. "I'm just glad I didn't spill it on us."

("What did you *do*, you stupid cow? This was a new jacket! You're such a bloody klutz, Sansa.")

I shiver a little.

It must be the cold. It is autumn, after all.

"Do I..." He trails off, and then takes a deep breath and starts again. "Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"No, of course not," I hasten to reassure him, to show that I'm not as much of a freak as I must seem right now. "I'm just... just easily startled, I guess."

"It's not just that, though. You rushed off after the archery competition like the place was on fire."

"I had to get to work."

"And you practically vanished without a trace after Wednesday's practice."

"I was embarrassed. And I had to work."

"And then there's now."

"I..."

I choke on my own words. What can I say to that that wouldn't offend him, or be an outright lie? I am uncomfortable right now, and I'm not exactly doing a great job of hiding it. He's not blind.

But he doesn't seem angry, either.

No, he seems... upset?

"I know I can be a bit full-on sometimes," he says quietly. "I don't mean any harm by it. I just..." He takes a deep breath, and his next words come out in a rush. "I just really like you. You're smart, you're pretty and you can recognise my geeky Princess Bride quotes. Plus, you make great coffee." He seems to deflate a little. "But I can take no for an answer. I won't... won't pursue you or anything if you don't want me to. I won't even talk to you any more if you'd rather I didn't. Although I'd rather not stop coming to Hot Coffee, if you don't mind. You really do serve great coffee, and my friends hang out there and-" He breaks off and takes another deep breath. "Sorry. I tend to talk when I'm nervous." Another sickly smile. "You've probably noticed that already. Sorry." He pauses, looking at me expectantly, but I can't seem to make myself speak. I can't even think of the right words. After a few moments, his face falls. "Sorry," he says again. "I... guess I'll just go then. Sorry. Bye."

He gets up and starts to walk slowly away.

My first feeling is one of overwhelming relief.

I don't have to worry about this anymore. I don't have to try to think of a way to turn him down without making him angry.

I don't have to deal with this at all.

And then I register the way his shoulders are drooping; the way his steps -- normally so light and quick -- have become a slow, dejected trudge.

And I feel kind of... conflicted.

He's not a bad guy, after all. And I do kind of like him, when he's not making me feel so nervous.

I can't just let him leave like this.

"Reza, wait," I call out before I can change my mind.

He turns to look at me with such hope in his eyes that it almost makes me feel sick, and I know I'm going to have to choose my next words very carefully indeed.

"I don't... I'm sorry, but I don't like you the way that you like me." His hope visibly gutters and dies, the sight of that cutting me to the bone, but I make myself push onwards. (What would Daenerys do? What would Alanna do?) "But I do like you as... as a friend. You can... You don't have to stop talking to me. Or coming to Hot Coffee." I attempt a smile, but have no idea how it actually turns out. "Anyway, Asha would kill me for driving away a customer."

For a heart-stopping moment, I have absolutely no idea how he's going to react. But then he smiles -- a real smile, this time -- and I start to let myself hope that this is going to turn out okay.

"Friends, then?" he asks softly, holding out a hand.

"Friends," I echo, using all my willpower to accept the handshake, rather than flinching away from the contact.

(I'm still relieved when he lets me go.)

"Do you want me to walk you back to the coffee shop?" he offers.

"No, thank you. That's okay," I say back, plastering what I hope is a cheerful smile across my face. "I have some errands to run, and I don't want to keep you."

I stand up, and he seems to take the hint.

"Until next time, then," he says.

"Next time," I agree.

It takes the last of my willpower, but I manage not to bolt until he's out of sight.

Things get a little blurry after that.

Flashes of people, voices, too many open spaces.

Need to find somewhere private.

There: public toilets. They'll do.

They'll have to.

Distantly, I realise that I'm no longer holding the remainder of my mocha. I must have dumped it in a rubbish bin en route. At least, I hope I did. I'd feel really bad if I'd inadvertently become a litterbug.

But then I'm locking the door of the cubicle behind me, doubling over with the sudden cramping in my gut.

The mocha doesn't taste nearly so good coming back up.

Sometime later, I flush the toilet, listening to make sure there's no one else out there before I creep out and examine myself in the mirror.

The damage isn't too bad this time. (It's been worse. It's been much worse.)

Eyes slightly red, but nothing that some cold water won't fix. Nothing caught in my hair this time -- I guess I must have remembered to hold it back. I wash my hands and face, rinse my mouth as best as I can, and then decide to blow a couple of quid on one of those little fuzzy-brush things from the dispenser on the wall.

Huh. It really is like chewing gum.

A short while later, I'm all minty-fresh and I feel more or less ready to face the world again.

Not that I really have a choice.

Time to get back to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the archery incident did actually occur whilst I was present. Not to me, thankfully.


	7. Chapter 7

"And you must be the famous Lady Alanna Stone."

I just about have time to wonder if the man before me is roleplaying as Fabio, with that long flowing hair and ruffled shirt, when he catches up one of my hands in his and brings it to his lips. Still holding my hand in a light grip, he bows low enough that I catch a glimpse of Missandei rolling her eyes behind him.

The sight of her helps me shake off my instinctive paralysis, to kick my mind into gear and start wondering frantically: what would Alanna do?

What should *I* do?

"I was not aware that my reputation had preceded me." The words emerge from my mouth in a haughtily icy tone that I don't even recognise as my own voice. Still, the sound of it, the way it feels on my tongue, gives me the strength to stiffen my spine, pull my hand away, and stare down from my full height with a cold little smile. "Perhaps I should be more careful about leaving witnesses in the future."

Oh my god.

Did I really just say that?

Did I really just do that?

My stomach flutters, and I have to suppress the urge to flinch when the man straightens, but I also feel a strange excitement start to build within me.

I can do this.

I *can* do this.

The Fabio-alike laughs, the sound loud, hearty and, seemingly, genuine. (Not that 'seems' means anything. Not necessarily. After all, even monsters can laugh.)

"I can see that you are going to be an interesting addition to our merry band of adventurers," he purrs, and that's a word I would never have thought to apply to a man before. "But please, I have been most remiss in my manners. Captain Alessandro Naharis, at your service."

He bows again, flinging his cloak back with a flourish that shows off the fact that he's carrying twin curved swords.

I arch an eyebrow, resting one hand on my hip.

"And what manner of service is it that you offer, Captain?"

His smile widens, giving his face a distinctly predatory aspect, and suddenly my self-assurance withers and dies as if it never even existed.

Was I flirting with him? I was... kind of flirting with him. I think.

He was definitely flirting with me.

I take an uncertain step backwards, trying to find my way back into Alanna's head, but that easy confidence eludes me.

I hear footsteps behind me, and then a voice.

"I might have known I'd find you fluttering around our newest member, Alessandro."

Daenerys! No, Nymeria; Chosen of Justice. Her voice is low and amused, but there's an edge to it, and I'm really not sure if that's in or out of character.

In character, I assume. After all, Alanna and Nymeria knew each other, once upon a time, when Alanna was a student at the Academy, and Nymeria was a temple novice. That's the back story we'd worked out, anyway. Nymeria is the one who talked Alanna into joining forces with this group. (It seemed appropriate, given that Daenerys recruited me.)

Alessandro spreads his hands modestly.

"I am merely a man, my lady," he says, smiling. "Can I help it if I am drawn to beauty like a moth to a flame?"

Behind him, Missandei (what *is* her character name? I know it begins with M...) rolls her eyes so hard I'm almost surprised they don't roll right out of her head, grimacing like she's sucking on something sour. I stifle a giggle.

And suddenly, I'm alright again.

Nymeria laughs.

"Be careful with this one, Alessandro. Lady Alanna is not some simpering girl like the ones who hang off your cloak wherever we go. She is my *friend*." She pauses to emphasise the word, and I draw myself up straight again, proudly. "And you know I have no patience for milksops."

"Indeed, my lady," he says, seemingly unfazed by either of us. (More's the pity.) "And *you* know my thoughts on the potency of danger as a spice." He turns his attention back to me. "It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. And now, if the both of you will excuse me, I have some business to attend to before we depart."

And with another bow, another flourish of his cloak, Captain Alessandro Naharis takes his leave.

I blink.

"Is he always like that?" I ask quietly, not sure if I'm asking as Sansa or as Alanna.

Nymeria chuckles ruefully.

"Worse, I fear," she says, confidingly. "The man is an incorrigible flirt. Do not dismiss him, though. Despite his lightness of manner, he is a demon on the battlefield."

I arch an eyebrow.

"Literally?" I ask, as if it's a matter of academic interest.

"Ah, no. I meant figuratively, of course." She laughs softly, her voice taking on a teasing note. "I see that I shall have to remember to watch my words with you, old friend. You always did take me to task for speaking loosely." She straightens, and with her next words she's back to being Daenerys again. "Out of character, I know you haven't been introduced to the player yet, but that's Daario, another one of the project committee members." She smiles ruefully. "He's kind of a flirt in real life as well, but he's not quite so over the top about it as when he's being Alessandro. Just tell him to back off if he's being a pain, though."

"Oh," I say, filing that information away.

"Anyway," Daenerys says. "Looks like the GMs have finished their little discussion. I think the game's about to start."

"Great!" For once it's excitement, not nervousness, that makes my heart race and my breath quicken. Well, okay, I'm still nervous. (What if I mess this up? What if I make a complete fool of myself? What if I do something so stupid I end up getting kicked out of the group during my very first game?) But mostly I'm just excited.

And happy.

"Thank you for inviting me, Daenerys," I say, the words tumbling out all in a rush. "I'm really looking forward to this."

"Good," she says, smiling brilliantly. "I'm glad. I hope it lives up to your expectations." She clears her throat. "Now, let us not tarry, Alanna, for a new quest awaits."

"Lead on, then, Nymeria. I will follow, as always."

This is going to be so much fun!

 

"And... time out!" Duncan, one of the people running the game, beams round at the lot of us. "That's it for tonight. Great job, guys. It was looking close there for a while, but you managed to pull through in the end. No TPK today!"

There's a ragged chorus of cheers from the players and a couple of exaggerated boos from some of the other GMs.

I lean towards Daenerys.

"What's a TPK?"

"Total party kill," she says. "Which is pretty much what it sounds like."

I blink.

"Does that happen often?"

"No, actually, it's pretty rare. It certainly hasn't happened since I've been playing here, although it's come close a couple of times." She flashes me a grin. "Like tonight."

"Oh." I turn that thought over in my mind. "So we, I mean, our characters could have died?"

I'm actually surprised at the strength of my reaction. I've only played Alanna for a few hours, but I'm already as invested in her fate as I am in any one of my stories. More, even.

I... I don't want her to die.

"Yes, of course," Daenerys says, her matter-of-fact tone drawing me out of my musings. "But the risk is part of the fun."

"I suppose," I reply, but I feel -- and sound -- highly dubious about the idea.

Daenerys laughs and nudges me companionably.

"Don't worry, I'll keep my favourite high mage safe. I am a knight, after all."

And, just like that, my worry is forgotten.

"Hello ladies," Alessandro, no, *Daario* breaks in. (How on earth am I going to be able to remember character names as well as real names? I just know I'm going to get confused and make a fool of myself.) "The two of you aren't still plotting, are you? Didn't you hear the time out?"

"Just talking, Daario," Daenerys says with a wry smile. "Why, are you worried?"

"Should I be?"

Daenerys turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

"What do you think, Sansa? Should he be?"

I almost freeze, but Alanna is still near the surface of my thoughts, still whispering self-assurance into my ear, and so instead I stand up straight and glance over at him.

"Oh, you might very well think that. I couldn't possibly comment," I murmur, giving what I hope is an enigmatic smile.

Daario laughs good-humouredly.

"Well, I shall keep my own counsel regarding any fear -- or lack, thereof -- on my part." In a somewhat less formal tone, he continues. "I just came over to say hello to our newest member." He turns his attention fully to me. (Somewhere in the back of my mind, I can't help being a little shocked that he can do that when Daenerys is standing right next to me. Even when I'm speaking to him, I can't help but be aware of her presence. She's just that charismatic.) "So, we haven't met out of character yet. I'm Daario."

"Sansa," I manage to murmur, feeling a blush start to creep over my cheeks. I struggle to keep my head up, and not drop my eyes meekly to the ground.

"It's nice to meet you, Sansa."

I half-expect him to bow and kiss my hand again, but he just smiles broadly, his gleaming white teeth standing out against his tanned skin.

"You too," I reply.

"So, did you enjoy the game? Do you think you'll be back next week?"

"I had a great time!" Suddenly, a rush of enthusiasm pushes aside the shyness, and I can talk without having to painfully grind out my words. "I'm definitely going to come back next week. I think I'm going to work on my costume, though. Some of them are really impressive. I really like your cloak. Did you make it yourself?"

"Thank you. I did." He seems pleased. "It's not actually that difficult. I can show you if you like."

"Um, maybe."

And I'm back to uncertainty again, the sensation as familiar as it is unwelcome. I look towards Daenerys, hoping for a lifeline.

She doesn't disappoint me.

"I've heard some of the other new people expressing interest making bits of costume," she says. "And I've been thinking it was about time I updated Nymeria's wardrobe a little. Maybe it's time we held another workshop. I'll send an e-mail around."

Daario purses his lips, but before he can say anything -- if he was going to say anything -- Jorah steps in front of him.

"That was a little riskier than I would've liked," he says to Daenerys. "Perhaps we should have tried to negotiate."

"They were slavers," Daenerys says, brusquely. "Nymeria doesn't negotiate with slavers. You know that."

"But now we're going to be tripping over assassins all the way to Annwn's Tomb," he points out, his tone eminently reasonable. "And they might have been able to help us track down the mysterious Shadowdancers. It's not like we have an abundance of other leads."

Daario laughs softly.

"But where would be the fun in that?"

Jorah glowers at him, but he only smiles wider.

"Nymeria almost died," Jorah says, his tone clipped.

"But she didn't," Daario points out, shrugging.

"But she could have done. And she still might, since you let those two get away to report to their masters."

Something dangerous glints in Daario's eyes, but his smile stays in place. His next words sound just a little tiny bit sharper.

"Forgive me if I was a *little* busy stopping one of them from taking your head while you lay unconscious in the dirt. I shall, however, be certain to rethink my priorities for next time."

I'm... starting to think this argument might be about more than just LARP tactics.

(For one brief moment I wonder if, like Daenerys and Asha, Jorah and Daario also had a 'Thing' that ended badly, but then I quickly dismiss the idea. I guess, despite what Hollywood, anime and about a bazillion romance novels tell us, sometimes arguing passionately with someone all the time just means you don't like them very much.)

Fortunately, Daenerys steps in before things can get too heated.

"It's done now," she says, firmly. "There's no point arguing about what could have been. Anyway, we have something more important to decide right now." She looks around the group of us still milling around here. "Where to for the post-LARP gathering?"

Everyone immediately starts talking at once. I try to dampen my brief flare of disappointment, telling myself that they all know each other already, some of them for years. I can't expect to be included on my very first time.

But it would have been nice to have the chance to actually chat with Daenerys a little, out of character. And Missandei, too. Maybe even one or two of the others.

Oh well. Maybe when I've been to a few more games.

(Anyway, since when am I actively eager to hang out in a crowd? Normally, I start feeling the urge to flee when confronted by groups of more than three or four people. This is different, though.)

(Maybe the trick to feeling at ease in a crowd of people is to first spend a few hours with them fighting other people pretending to be monsters.)

"I forgot to mention it before, but it's something of a tradition to congregate at someone's house after a LARP," Daenerys explains. "We generally eat junk food and chat. Sometimes we watch a film." I nod, trying not to look too disappointed. Much to my surprise, though, her next words aren't a goodbye. Instead, she continues with: "You're more than welcome to join us."

The invitation is so unexpected that it takes me a moment to process it.

"I'd love to," I say quickly, when I manage to kick my brain into gear. (God, I hope she doesn't think I'm completely gormless.) "But I don't want to intrude."

"The more the merrier," she says, smiling.

"It'll be a relief to have someone sensible to talk to," Missandei says quietly, from beside me.

I hadn't even noticed her there. She's really good at fading into the background. Plus, I was focusing on (Daenerys) trying to make out what Daenerys was saying through the rather noisy debate.

When Missandei's words sink in (she thinks I'm sensible?) I give her a shy smile.

"Are you saying that the rest of us aren't sensible?" Daenerys asks Missandei, laughing a little.

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying." Missandei's tone is completely deadpan, but her eyes are sparkling.

"Well... Okay. Fine." Daenerys smiles ruefully. "I can't argue with that. And, speaking of arguments..."

She gestures to the rest of the group, who don't seem to have managed to come to anything resembling agreement on where to go now. It looks like Jorah and Daario are almost on the brink of coming to blows.

"Not our place this week," Missandei tells Daenerys, her voice low but firm. "I'm not spending tomorrow cleaning up after them again."

"I'd help," Daenerys protests.

"You'd mean to, certainly. But Doreah will be coming round." I guess that means that Dor doesn't actually live with them. I really hadn't been sure. "And you know she'll expect to have all of your attention, to make up for you 'abandoning' her this evening. So it would fall to me. And I'm not doing it."

Wow. That's the most I've ever heard her say in one go. I guess this is something she feels strongly about.

She raises an eyebrow at Daenerys, who sighs.

"I... would like to argue with that."

"But you can't."

"No. No, I can't. Fine, not our place." She frowns. "Where, then?"

We look at each other, the on-going argument -- mainly between Jorah and Daario -- seeming loud all of a sudden. The gist of it seems to be that neither of them wants to have to walk 'all the way back' from the other's house afterwards.

(A part of me wants to scoff at them for being wimps. They're talking about less than an hour! We've just been traipsing around the lake for at least four times that long.)

(I quickly shove stifle that little voice before it does something unfortunate, like actually come out of my mouth.)

A thought occurs to me. I push it away, then bring it back and study it.

That... could work. And I don't mind cleaning up a little mess. It's not likely to be that bad, anyway.

"Um, we could use my place," I offer, not quite able to believe I'm saying this. "One of my housemates is at her boyfriend's, one's away visiting her family and the other's out clubbing, so we're not going to disturb anyone."

"And you live on City Road, don't you?"

"Yes," I say, nodding, a little startled at the fact that she even remembered that. "Just a ten minute walk away."

"Great!" She smiles at me, and those little doubting voices at the back of my mind fall silent. This is a good idea. It is. "Thanks Sansa, you're a lifesaver." She turns to the rest of the group, raising her voice to make herself heard over the on-going argument. "Hey guys, Sansa's got a suggestion..."

"I hope you know what you're letting yourself in for," Missandei murmurs next to me.

I glance over at her, not sure how to take that remark, but she's wearing her enigmatic expression again and it leaves me none the wiser. But she's probably talking about the mess.

I give her I small smile.

"So do I."

 

How can a group of people create so much chaos? They were only *here* a few hours. I swear this stuff has multiplied overnight.

I rush around trying to clean up the mess as best as I can. I can totally see why Missandei didn't want to do this twice in one week. It's not that bad, I guess -- it mostly just involves going around with a black bin bag, or several -- but it would get pretty tedious after a while.

I check my watch and curse mentally. I'm running late.

Where does the time go? I set my alarm for seven-thirty just so this wouldn't happen, even though it's a Sunday morning and I didn't get to bed until the small hours.

Unfortunately, I didn't quite make it out of bed when the alarm went off, which is part of the problem. The other part of the problem is that tidying up is taking way longer than I thought it would.

Note to self: next time, I'll deal with it *before* I go to bed, no matter how tired I am.

(I guess I'm already assuming that there'll be a next time.)

In a sudden burst of productivity, I finish the tidying and set down to work on my essay, conscious of the fact that the dreaded hour is creeping ever nearer. Eventually, my doom is upon me and I know I can't ignore it any longer.

It's time to call my mother.

 

"Yes, I know I'm here to study," I say, hating the plaintive, almost whining note in my voice. "But staying out late one night a week isn't going to do me any harm."

I wish I'd never said anything. But I thought she'd be pleased that I've joined a club, that I'm actually making friends here rather than spending all my time at university, home or Hot Coffee.

Maybe I should have known better.

"Hmm," she says, and I can practically feel the weight of judgement in the sound. The implied: 'I know you're making a mistake, but I'm just going to let you go ahead and fall on your face. And then I'm going to say I told you so.' Maybe that's a lot to read into one little not-quite-word, but it has the weight of experience behind it.

The weight of long, long experience.

"What did you call this new hobby of yours again? Lop?"

I roll my eyes, glad she can't see me.

"It's LARP, Mum. L-A-R-P. It stands for live-action role-play."

"Hmm," she says again. "And you're sure it's not a bit, well, weird? I mean, you read all these things online about roleplaying and dungeons and whatnot. Impressionable young girls being led astray. I worry about you, Sansa, away from home for the first time. You're just so young and innocent."

The unspoken message being, of course, that she wants me to stay that way.

"*No*," I say, emphatically, resisting the sudden urge to hurl the phone across the room. "It's nothing like that. I *told* you. It's a bit like improvisational theatre."

"So, there's an audience?"

"No, but... Okay, maybe it's more like interactive storytelling."

"Like one of those choose-your-own adventure books you used to read? It sounds a bit childish if you ask me."

Make up your mind, Mum! Is it some seedy gateway into a dark life of god knows what, or is it a children's game? Which is it?

Fortunately, I manage to refrain from saying that that out loud. Probably just as well -- it would only bring about another lecture.

She only wants to make sure that I'm okay. She worries about me. Isn't a mother allowed to worry about her daughter now? And so on, and so on. All delivered in a slightly hurt tone that clearly lets me know what a terrible, terrible daughter I am for objecting to her giving me the third degree regarding every single aspect of my life.

"Well, anyway, I had a lot of fun, and I'm definitely going to go back next week," I say firmly, hoping that will be the end of it.

"Just as long as it doesn't interfere with your studies."

"I'll make sure it doesn't, don't worry. Actually, that reminds me: I got ninety-three per cent on my last lab report."

"Well done," she says, sounding pleased. "Just make sure you keep that up."

No, she couldn't possibly stop after 'well done,' could she? She just had to add that last little admonishment.

"I'll try my best."

I tell myself that she means well. She really does mean well. She does.

It doesn't help.

Time for a change of subject.

"So," I say brightly. "How are the repairs coming along?"

"Expensively," she sighs. "Sometimes it seems like whenever we fix one problem something else goes wrong immediately afterwards." I hear the rustle of papers, and I know that she's looking over the accounts again, probably seated at (Dad's) her desk, the reading glasses she won't admit to needing sliding down her nose.

Suddenly I miss my family, and Winterfell, so strongly that it almost hurts.

"I guess that's the problem with living in a country pile," I say, smiling a little.

"That's what your father used to say," she says softly.

"I know."

Neither of us speaks for a moment or two, both lost in our own thoughts. I take a deep breath. Mum clears her throat.

"Did I tell you what Rob's gone and done now?" she says, composed once more.

"No, Mum. What's he done?"

"He's actually put together *brochures* for this retreat idea of his!"

She sounds so utterly scandalised that I can't help laughing a little.

"Not *brochures*," I say, mimicking her tone.

"I know! I've sent you a copy, so you can see for yourself what's going through his head. Maybe you can help me talk some sense into him."

"I'll look through them when they get here," I say, carefully noncommittal.

"Thank you, Sansa. I knew I could rely on you."

There she goes again, hearing exactly what she wants to hear. I'm certainly not going to correct her, though. It's much easier that way.

"Is Rob around at the moment?"

"No, he's off gallivanting with some friends at the moment. He's due back sometime today, but I don't know exactly when."

"What about Bran and Arya?"

"Riding and fencing lessons, respectively."

"Oh, right. I forgot."

I don't ask about Jon, even though it's been a little while since I've heard from him. Mum doesn't like to think about my half-brother, especially since Dad...

Especially now.

"I'll tell them you called," Mum says. "Maybe you could call again later when they're back? I know they'd like to speak to you."

"I will if I can," I say cautiously. "But I'm going out in a bit, and I'm not sure what time I'll be back."

"On a Sunday?" she says, sounding surprised. "Where are you off to?"

I face-palm silently.

Why oh why did I have to open my big mouth? I suppose I could lie, say I'm working a shift at the coffee shop today. But... I'm not going to do that.

I settle myself more comfortably on my bed. I have the feeling I'm going to be here a while.

"Have you ever heard of historical re-enactment?"


	8. Chapter 8

The knock comes promptly at noon. It's not the sound of someone gently rapping, rapping at my kitchen door. Rather, it's a thunderous report that seems like it should rattle the door in its frame, making me leap off the sofa like a startled rabbit. Even if I wasn't expecting Asha, I would have guessed that it was her.

Or maybe a passing giant.

I straighten my top (a nervous gesture; I should probably try to stop doing it in future) and answer the door.

Asha doesn't bother with anything as superfluous as a greeting. She just looks me up and down and gives a grudging nod of approval.

"You'll do," she says gruffly, then flashes a brief, unexpected grin. "I'm almost surprised you even own a tracksuit."

"Of course I do," I say, stung into unusual asperity by her dismissive words.

She just grunts.

"Ready to go?" she asks laconically.

"I just need to put my shoes on and grab my stuff. Do you want to come in a minute?"

"Thanks."

I'm conscious of her looming presence as I sit down to tie my trainers. She's looking around the room, blatantly scrutinising everything in sight.

Judging it, probably.

"I wouldn't have thought that was your kind of decor," she observes, nodding towards the 3-D anatomy posters on the wall.

"One of my housemates is a medical student," I explain. "She says it helps her to have them there." Looming over anyone who sits on the sofa. "She sometimes has a full model skeleton on display, but she tends to move that into her room when she's not here."

I stand up and slip on my jacket and backpack.

"Okay, I'm ready."

"You've got a bottle of water?"

"A full litre," I confirm.

"Then let's go."

She strides forth without so much as a backwards glance. As I close the door behind us and hurry to catch up, I wonder again: what have I let myself in for?

 

The practice ground turns out to be a short bus ride away. The first couple of minutes pass in awkward silence, and I'm just starting to wonder if I should try to make conversation (or if it would be terribly rude of me just to pull out my book and start reading) when Asha's phone rings.

Saved by the bell.

She glances at the display and rolls her eyes.

"What do you want, Theon?" she barks by way of greeting.

I quickly look away, trying to at least give her the illusion of privacy. Even if the illusion is all it is. I mean, I'm sitting right next to her, and she isn't really making any effort to keep her voice down.

(Anyway, it's not eavesdropping if I can't help overhearing.)

Theon... Why does that name seem familiar?

Whoever he is, the 'conversation' between them is clearly an argument, and -- from the occasional mention of terms like 'catch limits' and 'trawlers' -- it's apparently regarding her family's fishing business. Sounds like Asha and this Theon person are having some kind of disagreement about the way they do things. Or will do things?

It seems to be quite a serious disagreement, judging by the way Asha turning the air blue with a stream of profanity that makes me blush to hear it.

She's very inventive.

"Well, fuck you too!" she spits out, almost disappointingly (such an ordinary epithet after all the others) and then hangs up, stabbing the disconnect icon as though she's trying to put her finger through the screen. She glowers at the phone for a moment before shoving it back in her pocket.

The silence stretches even more awkwardly than before the phone call. I glance over at her, startled to find myself meeting her gaze.

"My brother," she mutters, as if in explanation.

Not that Asha Greyjoy ever explains herself. Not ever.

But at least now I know why the same sounded familiar. Mystery solved.

I should probably just let the silence linger, uncomfortable though it is. Instead, though, I find myself actually attempting to offer sympathy.

"Dealing with family can be tough, sometimes," I murmur.

"Ha! You're not wrong there, Stark. Can't live with 'em, can't just slaughter the whole damn lot of 'em."

Not *quite* how I would have put it, but I can certainly understand the sentiment.

"It seems to be a little easier since I moved away," I offer.

Even if I haven't actually moved all that far.

But if only I can persuade my mother to loosen her death grip on the reins a little, maybe it'll get easier still. Maybe I'll actually start looking forward to her phone calls, rather than mostly seeing them as just another chore.

"Yeah, well, Theon's just as much of a prick as he ever was. All the distance in the world won't help that."

"Is he older or younger?"

Part of me can't quite believe that I'm apparently having a relatively normal, relatively civil conversation with Asha. I wouldn't say she's a different person outside the coffee shop, exactly, but I couldn't imagine having this discussion there. I certainly don't think I'd be asking all these questions about something other than her boat-building project.

"Younger by a couple of years. Finished A-levels and getting in some work experience before going off to university next year." She shakes her head, pulling a disgusted face. "Less than a year in, and he already thinks he knows the family trade better than I do. Arrogant git."

"I see."

"He wants us to *diversify* and *modernise*," she spits out, scowling like the words leave a nasty taste in her mouth.

"And that's... bad?" I ask cautiously.

I still can't quite believe she's actually answering my questions, rather than just telling me to f... to go away. I half-wonder if I should stop asking, stop pushing, but I know there's no way my curiosity is going to let me do any such thing.

"Some modernisation is inevitable," she admits grudgingly. "Especially technologically. We've got to be able to compete in today's market, after all. But we have traditions. We have *values*. We can't just toss all that by the wayside just because things get a little tough! We're *Greyjoys*. That name should stand for something."

"Right," I say, not really knowing how I'm supposed to respond to that.

Or even if I'm supposed to respond. But she's looking at me now, studying me with a direct, scrutinising stare that makes me want to duck my head and hide behind my hair.

I don't like being looked at.

(Well, maybe unless it's Daenerys doing the looking.)

"You understand, don't you?" she says, suddenly. "I mean, you're a Stark of Winterfell. You have a history. You have *roots*. Not like these Johnny-come-latelies who crow about back their family tree as far back four whole generations. Or businesses who splash 'Established in 1952' all over their signs like it actually means something. Pah!"

"I guess."

But I think I do understand what she means. And I sort of agree with some of it, but not all. I mean, new doesn't mean bad. And maybe some things *should* be changed once in a while.

Not that I'm going to say that to her, of course.

I remember... I remember Dad showing me the Weirwood grove for the first time, the memory flooding in so suddenly and so vividly that I can almost feel the bitter Autumn wind nipping at my cheeks, see the bright pink of my new little wellingtons disappearing beneath the thick dark mud, smell the rich aroma of old wood and wet leaves. 

The Weirwood grove was -- still is, I guess -- a tangled thicket of trees all grown together, so gnarled and twisted they almost looked like they were staring at me with wizened little faces. I didn't really like it much, honestly. (Maybe I was even a little frightened of them. Maybe.)

(Okay, maybe a lot.)

But he took hold of my hand and he told me... He told me that those trees were older than the house itself. That they'd stood there for long before there was ever a Stark in Winterfell, or even a Winterfell at all, and that they would still be standing long after all of us were gone. (That didn't really lessen their scariness, to be honest.) He said that they symbolised our responsibilities to our family, and to the land. In that order.

That they were a reminder of our heritage.

I miss him so much.

"You daydreaming again, Stark?" Asha's voice cracks the cocoon of memory wide open, and I blink stupidly at her for a moment before I find my voice.

"No, just... Just thinking about my father. What you said about tradition and history reminded me of some of the things he used to say." I take a deep breath, mentally shooing the ghosts away. "I think he would have agreed with you."

At least in part.

"Oh. Well, good." She nods, looking pleased.

Silence wraps itself around us once more, but for some reason it doesn't quite feel so awkward now.

Or maybe that's just my imagination.

In any case, a few minutes later Asha elbows me in the side (ow!) and presses the bell.

"Look sharp, Stark," she says cheerfully. "Time for you to start learning how it's really done."

Oh.

Great.

Sighing inwardly, I drag myself to my feet.

Time to get this over with.

 

"Come on, Stark, put some welly into it!" Asha roars from somewhere behind me. "That's not a bouquet you've got in your hand."

"I'm trying!" I pant. My hands are throbbing and my arms feel like limp noodles, but I grit my teeth and swing for the target again, giving it everything I've got left.

It's more than I thought.

Maybe a little too much, actually.

The padded practice sword thunks solidly against the target with a bone-jarring impact, twisting in my grip. I try to tighten my hands on the hilt, trying desperately to hang onto it, but I can't. I just *can't*. It drops to the ground, bouncing once and then laying still. The blade pointing towards me like an accusing finger.

I sigh, letting my arms hang limp for one blessed moment before bending to scoop the thing up.

I'm *glad* you fell in the mud, I tell it silently, irrationally and fervently hating the inanimate object for its role in my abject and on-going humiliation. I *hate* you. I hate *this*!

"What the hell was that?" Asha demands, glowering. Under any other circumstances, that expression might make me grovel and cower and mumble apologies like some kind of simpleton. Now, though, I'm just too exhausted and (pissed off) peeved to be intimidated.

"My hands are tired," I say, hating the plaintive whine in my voice. "I couldn't hold onto it any longer."

She sighs heavily, stepping forward without so much as a by-your-leave and physically adjusting my grip. (It takes all my willpower not to flinch away.)

"Like *this*, Sansa." Wow, she actually used my first name for once. She must be annoyed. "Like I showed you. Now widen your stance and bed your knees a little." I do what she says. She kicks my foot. "No, wider. The way you're standing right now, a stiff breeze could knock you over."

I notice a few of the others standing around and watching, gathering in pairs and small groups to point and mock at the gangling beanpole who's all thumbs and two left feet.

Wonderful.

Just wonderful.

What was I even thinking? Why didn't I just pluck up the courage to tell Asha I wasn't interested when she first dragooned me into this?

Like it was that easy.

Like it's ever that easy.

I'm cold, I'm tired, I hurt and I'm embarrassed. And my misery only deepens as Asha takes me through drill after drill, exercise after exercise until I just want to lay down and *die*.

Maybe of embarrassment.

"Leave the poor girl alone, Asha," one of the bystanders calls out, laughing. I glance over at him, torn between mortification at the fact that my discomfort is so obvious, and thankfulness for his intercession on my behalf.

The speaker turns out to be a short-ish man with black hair and a neatly-sculpted beard. I remember him from Asha's rather perfunctory introduction earlier, but I didn't quite catch his name.

R-something, I think.

"You stay out of this, Renfield," she snaps back. (Renfield? Really? Huh. Still, it's nice to know who it is I'm making a fool of myself in front of.) "It's none of your business."

"That's *Renly*," he says, pointedly. "One of these days you'll get it right." (I'm not sure Renly's much better than Renfield, honestly, but I keep that to myself.) He saunters over, giving me a smile and Asha a very disapproving look. "Let her catch her breath at least," he says, and that sounds like the most wonderful idea in the world right now.

I look at Asha with what I'm sure must be huge, pleading eyes. She sighs loudly.

"Fine. Five minutes. Stretch it out. Drink some water. And give me that sword before you drop it again."

I mutely hold it out and she practically snatches it out of my hands.

Ow.

"You don't have to be so rough."

Bloody hell, did I just say that out loud?

Asha's head whips around towards me, and there's a look of such shock on her face that it would be comical if I wasn't so horrified.

I can feel the apology right there on the tip of my tongue, quickly followed by the urge to hunch in on myself, to make myself as small a target as possible. My stomach flutters and twists like I'm standing on the deck of a boat in rough seas.

But something won't let me give in to my usual cowardice. So I stand there, my spine straight(-ish), looking Asha (more or less) directly in the eyes.

And I say...

Nothing, apparently.

Maybe the apology I *still* want to give voice to has strangled all my other words, leaving me standing here dumb and dumbfounded with everyone *looking* at me, waiting for me to speak up.

I bet Alanna Stone never has this problem.

I try to put myself into her skin, to fill myself with her easy confidence, but she slips through my fingers like smoke, eluding my desperate grasp.

And it's just me standing here. In front of Asha. Who currently has a face like a thundercloud.

Eep.

"Um, I mean my fingers are a little stiff and sore -- because I've never really held a sword before, you see, and I'm still not even really sure if I was holding it right -- and um, anyway, I couldn't quite open my hands fast enough and you kind of bent my finger back a little bit when you took the sword and it sort of hurt and, um, maybe just make sure I've actually let go of it properly before pulling it away next time?"

Great. Now everyone can add 'gangling beanpole who's all thumbs and two left feet *and* babbles idiotically.'

Way to make a great first impression, Sansa.

I brace myself in anticipation of a rant to end all rants, but what happens next is something I could never have predicted.

"I'm... sorry if I hurt you. I'll try to be more careful next time."

Asha looks as shocked to be saying the words -- grudging and halting though they are -- as I am to be hearing them. It takes a moment before I can shake off my paralysis enough to reply to her.

"It's okay," I say, quickly. "I was probably just being clumsy, anyway." And, feeling rather like I might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb, I take a deep breath and make myself continue. "You know, I'm not really sure this is for me. I mean, I'm not very strong and I clearly don't have any kind of natural aptitude with a sword."

Which I could have told her already, if she'd bothered to ask.

She starts to say something, but Renly interrupts, talking right over her.

"Maybe you just need a better teacher," he says, giving me a smile that somehow manages to be highly amused, but not unkind. "Asha might be one of our best fighters, but as a teacher? Honestly?" He leans in a little, conspiratorially, but doesn't bother to lower his voice in the slightest. "She sucks donkey balls."

"Oi! I'm standing right *here*, you foppish French fuckwit!"

French? He doesn't *sound* French. He sounds as English as I am.

"I *know*," Renly says, shrugging as he turns the full force of his smile on her. "I'm hardly going to say something like that behind your back now, am I? Where would be the fun in that?"

Somehow, against all the odds, I manage to neither laugh nor to gasp in horror.

I can't believe he said that.

I really can't believe he said that.

Especially not when Asha's standing there with a sword in her hand. A practice sword, granted, but even so.

It's either the bravest thing I've ever seen, or the stupidest thing I've ever seen.

I'm still trying to decide which -- maybe both? -- when Renly abruptly turns around and yells at the top of his lungs, making me almost jump out of my skin.

"Loras!" he shouts. "Come over here a minute. I need you."

A moment later, a figure emerges from the group of people across the way. The ones who *aren't* standing around gawping at the show, but are actually focusing on their own training.

I give him a quick glance as he jogs over, and then a second one. And a third for good measure. Wow. He *really* looks the part. Like, tall and regal, with curly brown hair and pale blue eyes. (Not as blue as Daenerys' eyes, of course, but then whose are?) It's like a knight from one of my books has stepped out of the pages and is jogging across a field in Nottinghamshire.

Gracefully.

Who even jogs gracefully?

(Apart from Daenerys.)

He smiles at us as he approaches, and I find myself smiling back.

And blushing, naturally.

"What do you need?" he asks affably, and even his *voice* is like something I'd expect from a fairy tale hero; a mellow, resonant tenor.

In my head, I'm already casting him as a gallant knight, perhaps rescuing a fair damsel, or duelling for a lady's favour.

(And I try not to think that maybe that lady could be tall and have red hair.)

"Sansa Stark, meet Loras Tyrell. Loras, this is Sansa. Asha brought her along today for the first time. Dragged her kicking and screaming, unless I miss my guess." He gives me a knowing wink. I blush and, conscious of Asha's baleful glare, very carefully say nothing at all.

"It's nice to meet you, Sansa," Loras says to me.

"And you too," I practically whisper.

He really has the most wonderful smile.

(Even though it doesn't make me feel quite as warm inside as...)

"Anyway," Renly says, drawing Loras' attention away from me. "Asha's been trying to teach her how to swing a sword, which is going about as well as you might imagine, so I was wondering if you could spare a few minutes to help out."

"Of course," he says, like it's not even a problem, like there aren't a million and one other, better things he could be doing with his time than showing one klutzy novice how to do something she never even wanted to do in the first place. "Shall we start now, Sansa?"

I'm... torn.

What I want to do more than anything is say thank you, but no thank you. Swordplay isn't for me, and I'll just be going now.

But on the other hand, it would be rude to say no after Loras so courteously went along with Renly just volunteering his services out of the blue.

And... And I kind of maybe wouldn't mind spending some time with him.

On the gripping hand, there's Asha. She did bring me here, and she was *trying* to teach me. She didn't even shout and swear at me all that much, really. Whatever Renly says about her teaching ability, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear

And I'm definitely more sow's ear than silken cloth.

Hesitantly, I turn to Asha.

"What do you think? Is that okay with you?"

She stares at me for a long, excruciating moment, and then waves a hand -- *not* the one holding the sword -- in clear dismissal.

"Go. See if Loras has better luck getting you to remember which end of the sword to hold than I did. It's about time I did some practice of my own, anyway."

She hands the practice sword to Loras.

Yes!

I mean, this is perfectly acceptable to me.

"Excellent!" Renly claps his hands together and nudges Asha. "Come on, Viking, let's spar." He smirks at her, making a beckoning gesture. "You know you want to try and hit me."

"More than you know, Frenchy," Asha growls. "And I won't just be trying." But there's a reluctant smile hovering at the corners of her mouth as she strides determinedly after him.

I suppose that was just friendly banter? Rather than actual hostility? It's hard to tell with Asha, sometimes.

I might have guessed she would have friends who are just as... forthright and physically expressive as she is.

"*Someone's* going to be all over bruises tonight," Loras sighs, frowning after the pair of them.

I blink. Maybe I was wrong.

"I thought it was just friendly sparring? I thought everyone was supposed to pull their blows?"

"It is, and they are. But Asha tends to play rough and Renly won't lose face by telling her to step it back a notch. If anything, he'll probably taunt her into being *more* aggressive." He shakes his head. "That mouth of his is going to get him in serious trouble one of these days," he says, then smirks a little.

"I... see."

It's so noble, the way he's worrying about his friend.

Now I'm even more glad that Asha just had me swing at a training dummy, rather than actually facing off against her. I most definitely do not like to play rough.

"Alright, enough about them." Loras turns to me with a kind smile. "Shall we get started?"

Right. Focus, Sansa. Try not to mess everything up this time.

I smile back at Loras, hoping against hope that the heat in my cheeks is from the exertion of training, rather than a blush of embarrassment.

Or any other kind of blush.

"Um, okay. Thanks for doing this."

"It's no trouble," he says, and he actually sounds like he means that, rather than just saying it to be polite. (He's probably just being polite.) "I'm one of the official weapons trainers for the Living History group anyway. So, I should be the one apologising to you for being remiss in my duties."

"Oh no, there's no need for that," I say quickly. "We got here early, and Asha wanted to get started, so we just kind of got on with it." I make myself stop, take a breath, and continue more slowly. "Anyway, you looked kind of busy."

"Well, I'm here now." And I'm thankful for that. "Alright, then. First of all, I have a couple of questions."

He looks at me like he's waiting for some kind of response. I look back at him, taking the opportunity to enjoy the view. 

Oh my god. I can't believe I just thought that. Am I staring? I hope I'm not staring. He must think I'm such a fool.

"Okay," I answer, trying not to shift uncomfortably.

"Have you done anything like this before? Fencing, martial arts, or any other kind of combat training?"

I shake my head.

"No, nothing." I think about mentioning yesterday's LARP session, but I don't think hurling imaginary fireballs is going to be at all relevant here. Anyway, what if his feeling about LARP are the same as Asha's? "Sorry."

"No need to apologise," he says gently. "Not everyone has. It just helps me to know what kind of experience you have, so I can better tailor my instruction to your level of ability."

"In that case, my level of ability is non-existent."

"What about other physical activities? Yoga, perhaps, or gymnastics, or dancing? Even aerobics. Anything involving movement and balance, really."

"I, um, I used to dance," I say, shyly. "Country dancing, ballroom dancing and ballet. Also some tap dancing, but I didn't do that for very long."

I bet he's a wonderful dancer. He's so poised and elegant.

"Good." He nods, looking pleased. "That will help."

"It will?"

"Of course. Believe it or not, how to stand and how to move are two of the most fundamental lessons of swordplay, and dancing teaches you both of those things. There are things that don't translate, of course, but we can worry about that later. For now, let's just start with the basics. Alright?"

"Um, alright."

"Good." His voice becomes brisk and business-like. "I'd like you to stand facing me with your feet shoulder's width apart..."

 

Much to my very great surprise, I don't totally hate the lesson. I haven't magically come to *enjoy* swinging a sword around or anything, but there's a certain sense of achievement in knowing that, if I wanted to, I wouldn't necessarily totally suck at it.

(I probably would, of course, but at least at the moment I feel like I have a chance of not failing completely.)

It feels a little disloyal to say it, even just in the privacy of my own head, but Loras really is a *much* better teacher than Asha. He's patient, and he explains things, and he doesn't look at me like he's wondering how someone so incompetent and idiotic even manages to walk without falling over her own feet. There are a couple of occasions when he has to physically adjust my stance, or my grip on the sword and, unlike Asha, he actually asks first. Also unlike Asha, his touch is light and gentle.

Naturally, I blush like a tomato on every single such occasion.

And I think I might... like it?

It's maybe a little bit like... like dancing.

The time passes more quickly than I would have expected, and I'm horrified to realise that I've completely monopolised Loras' attention for the rest of the training session. I try to apologise, but he waves my babbling away with another one of his easy smiles.

"I enjoy teaching," he says. "And, between you and me, it makes a refreshing change to have a student who actually listens to what I say." I duck my head, blushing. He's probably just saying that, but it's nice to hear nonetheless. "If you think you're going continue with the training, there are some exercises I'd suggest that will probably make things a little easier for you."

"Well..."

If he'd asked that earlier, my answer would have been a resounding no. (Well, it would have been in my head. Out loud, I would have undoubtedly stammered assent.) But now, I find myself oddly indecisive.

"I think I'll try one more session and decide then," I find myself saying.

"That's sensible," he says, nodding. "Of course, if you do decide that the war part of re-enactment isn't for you, there's always the crafting and historical realism side of things. And we can always use a few non-combatants to add some verisimilitude to our formal gatherings."

I never even thought about that.

I mean, I did before, when I was trying to convince myself that letting Asha drag me out here wasn't really all that horrible an idea. But today, the thought never even crossed my mind.

"That sounds great," I say enthusiastically. "I still don't think that swordfighting -- or any kind of fighting -- is really my thing, but I really love the idea of making things using authentic methods, and recreating specific periods and events from history." It belatedly occurs to me that I've just disparaged a part of the hobby that Loras obviously enjoys. I wince inwardly. And blush outwardly. "Um, no offence. About the swordfighting thing."

"None taken," he says genially. He shrugs. "It isn't for everyone. Anyway, wouldn't life be boring if we all liked the same things?"

"I guess so."

Wise as well as handsome. I stand by my first statement: *wow*.

I think... I think if I spend much more time around Loras, I might start to develop a little crush on him.

Maybe I already have.

Not that he'd ever in a million years feel the same way about me, of course. But that's okay. I'm happy just to enjoy this feeling.

Besides, it's perfectly normal to have a crush on someone like Loras.

(Unlike on...)

"How'd it go, then?" Asha's voice breaks in. "Did you manage to make a fighter out of her?"

Loras doesn't *actually* roll his eyes, but in the brief moment before he turns towards Asha, his face bears the most long-suffering expression I've ever seen. And then it's gone as if it never even existed, replaced by the friendly smile that seems to be his default.

"We covered the basics, and Sansa definitely shows potential." He smiles at me. "She's going to come back next week and see if she likes it any better."

"Oh." Asha actually looks startled, but she recovers quickly. "Well, good. We'll soon have you swinging a sword like you were born with one, Stark!"

Oh. Great.

I smile and make a noncommittal sound. Fortunately, Renly chooses that moment to limp up to our little group, providing a convenient distraction.

"Let me guess," Loras says dryly, looking him up and down. "Asha powered right through your guard again and smacked you hard in the side."

"Good guess," Renly says, dropping his hand from his side.

"It's not my fault if his guard was pathetic," Asha huffs.

"No, but it is your fault if you don't pull your blow enough," Loras says, and he actually looks serious. "If you're not careful, you're going to end up causing someone a serious injury. And what kind of example are you setting for the new people?"

"It wasn't *that* hard," she objects. "And he did tell me to, what was it? To 'give it some *oomph*'."

Loras shoots a hard look at Renly, who shrugs sheepishly and then winces.

"What can I say? She's just so much fun to wind up. It's not *my* fault she has an ogre or something in her family tree." He looks over at Asha. "You know, you are *freakishly* strong for a girl."

She salutes him, grinning.

"Thanks," she says.

"That wasn't a... Oh, never mind. I've had enough. I need a drink." He draws in a deep breath, winces again, and shouts loudly enough that I almost expect to see a microphone. "To the pub!"

That draws a ragged cheer from the others, who are mostly standing around in small groups, chatting.

Renly turns back to us, smiling.

"Care to join us, Sansa?"

"Oh, um, I probably shouldn't. I have an essay I need to work on."

"Come on, Stark," says Asha. "You can come along for one, can't you?"

I know I should demur, but...

"Alright. I'll come out for one, then."

And, really, I'm not quite as reluctant as I sound. Or as I probably should be, really.

Oh well.

What Mum doesn't know won't earn me another lecture.

To the pub!


	9. Chapter 9

Loras is soooo dreamy.

I'm watching him covertly as he talks to one of the other new society members, explaining some technical thing or other to do with swinging a sword around. I don't know. I don't really care, to be honest. I think if he sat and read the phone book, I'd find that just as compelling.

Somehow I'm still sitting in the pub, that one drink seeming to have turned into three. Or is it four? I'm not entirely sure. I know I should probably think about leaving soon, but this is... nice. The re-enactors are a boisterous bunch, but they seem friendly enough. I haven't really spoken to them much beyond introductions, but that's okay. I'm content to just sit here and take in the scene.

To watch Loras.

The intense look on his face makes him seem even more handsome, and he illustrates his points with fluid, expressive movements of his hands.

I guess my story needs a love interest, and there are definitely worse muses than him.

(Something about that doesn't seem to fit, somehow; a little, nagging feeling like there's something out of place.)

(Never mind. I'm sure I can work it out.)

I haven't quite kept my resolution to stick to soft drinks, so I'm feeling a tiny little fuzzy around the edges. Not drunk, nowhere near drunk, just... pleasantly relaxed. Really, it's more psychological than physiological at this point.

(I don't tend to drink alcohol all that much, and I never, ever let myself get drunk around other people. It's too... It's not...)

(I just don't do that.)

My tolerance may be pretty crap -- especially compared to Rob's -- but even I don't get rat-arsed after one cider, two cokes and a lime soda.

Oh. I guess it is four drinks, then. And I haven't actually bought a single one of them, which means I should definitely get the next round. I don't want these people to think I'm some kind of freeloader.

I take a sip of my cider, relishing its crisp, refreshing bite. Not half bad actually, although it's not as good as one of Winterfell's brews. There are only dregs left in the glass now, though. Maybe this is a good time to get another round in. I quickly glance around the table. Not everyone's in need of a new drink, but enough people are that I won't look like a cheapskate.

Perfect.

Now all I have to do is make myself heard over the noise.

"Um, does anyone want a drink?"

No response. 

I clear my throat and try again. Still no response. Maybe if I stand up and wave my purse in the air?

Suddenly, Renly's voice booms out, sudden and loud enough to make me jump.

"Quiet, you lot. The lady's trying to say something."

And suddenly, everyone's looking at me. I freeze like a deer in headlights.

"Go on, Sansa." Renly lowers his voice to a normal speaking volume, and his words snap my out of my paralysis.

"Um, right. Ah, I'm going to go up to the bar, and I was just wondering: does anyone want a drink?"

Renly is the first to answer. "That's very kind of you, thanks," he says, smiling. "I'll have another Newcastle Brown."

A handful of the others pipe up with their own requests. I can't help worrying a little about how much it's going to cost, but I ignore that nagging voice at the back of my mind. It's not going to be *that* much, and I have to stand my round. It's only fair. Even Mum would approve of that. Well, not that she'd approve of me being here in the first place, especially when I have studying to do, but once we got past that little wrinkle I'm sure she'd agree with me.

The importance of social conventions and obligations is, like, one of her *things*.

I'm just thankful that working in the coffee shop has improved my memory. A few months ago, there's no way I'd have remembered what everyone wants. Now, I don't even have to ask them to repeat it.

"I'll have an Old Peculiar if they've got it, or a Hobgoblin if they haven't," Asha says. "And I'll come with you to help carry them all."

She gets up before I can say that's not necessary.

"Um, thanks."

"Don't forget to ask for student discount," she says, well, pretty much orders, when we're standing in line at the bar.

"Okay."

Like I'd forget that. I already have my NUS card clutched in my hand, ready and waiting. Student discount is a lifesaver as far as my finances are concerned.

It looks like we might be waiting a little while to order. This place is surprisingly busy for a Sunday afternoon. From the looks of it, the customers are strange mix of students and craggy old men of the type you often see in certain types of old-fashioned bars. 'Old man pubs,' Rob always calls them. The kind that don't sell coffee or alcopops, or anything other than wine, spirits, and a wide selection of strong, dark beers. The kind where the staff look at you crosswise if you try asking for a white wine spritzer. Or if you're female.

There are a fair few of those kinds of pubs around Winterfell.

But this place actually has an espresso machine. (Albeit not a very good one, and it's been shoved into a corner without any real consideration of ease of use. But still.) And those brightly coloured bottles in one of the fridges definitely don't contain beer or spirits. I guess the owner decided to cash in on all that lovely student money. But it looks like some of his old clientele decided to stick around. I bet they'll be here long after we all graduate, too.

I wonder what they think about all the changes they've seen. About the way that every year brings new faces, and sees old ones vanish out into the world.

Hmm. Maybe there's a story in that, or a vignette at least. A vampire or some other immortal visiting their favourite drinking hole over the decades and centuries of their long existence. Seeing it change around them while they stay the same.

I think I could do something with that.

"Sansa."

It takes me a moment to respond, due to the twin strangenesses of Asha speaking softly, and of her using my first name, rather than just calling me 'Stark.' (Twice in one day. I wonder if I should be worried.)

"Yes?"

The expression on her face is... odd. Awkward, maybe? Uncomfortable? I'm not sure what it means. This is completely outside the normal context of our interactions to date. 

"About Loras."

I blink. What? Did she notice me watching him? Could she...? Surely not. Is she going to warn me off him? (Like that's even necessary. Like he'd even look twice at someone like me.) Could she be interested in him for herself?

No, I can't believe that. Everything about their interactions... No. I'd more easily believe her to be interested in *Renly*, and I really don't think that's at all likely. Friends, definitely, but nothing more than that.

"What about him?" I ask, cautiously, because it seems that unless I say *something*, she's not going to continue.

"You fancy him, don't you?" she asks, with all the bluntness I've come to expect from her.

"What?" The word comes out as a squeak. "Why would you...? I mean, I've only just met him. How could...? What?"

Oh god. Was I really being that obvious? Did everyone notice?

Did *Loras* notice?

"That's a yes, then." There's a brief glimmer of humour in her eyes, but then that fades into seriousness. "Just thought you should know, he's already in a relationship."

"Oh," I say. Somehow, that doesn't surprise me in the slightest. I mean, someone that kind, that handsome? I'd have been more surprised if he was actually still single. I wonder idly who the lucky girl is.

"And even if he wasn't, I'm afraid you're not his type."

Much to my surprise, I feel the sting of almost-tears at the corners of my eyes. She's right, of course. I know that, knew that already. Why would someone like Loras ever look twice at awkward, plain, clumsy, boring Sansa?

("Why are you crying, Mouse? You should be happy. You should be *grateful*. No one would even look at you twice if it wasn't for me. No one else wants you. No one else even cares. If you didn't have me, you'd be all alone. I'm doing you a favour.")

But it still hurts a little to hear someone say it.

I wish she'd let me keep pretending.

"I know," I say, and despite my best efforts, my voice cracks a little, making me sound lost and forlorn. But I'm really not. I'm fine.

Just fine.

I think I'm going to leave after this round. I do have work to do, after all.

"I didn't mean- Oh, hellfire and damnation! This is what happens when I try to be delicate." She sighs heavily. "Look, Stark, Loras is gay."

I stare at her for a moment, nonplussed.

He's gay?

"Oh," I say, at a loss for words.

Loras is gay. Huh.

(For the briefest of moments, 'what a waste' flashes through my mind, the words sounding a lot like my mother's voice. And then I push the sentiment away, instantly ashamed of myself for even thinking it. Anyway, I don't actually think that.)

Asha smirks at me.

"If you could only see the look on your face right now," she chuckles, back to her usual ebullience. "I'm guessing you didn't have a clue."

I shake my head.

"No, I would never have guessed."

The thought just never even occurred to me.

Not that it really makes a difference to my crush. If anything, it actually makes things simpler. There's a world of difference between 'not in a million years, but still non-zero because you can never know for certain so that's a maybe' and 'never'. Maybe gives you hope, no matter how much you try to convince yourself there isn't any to be had. Never... doesn't. Now I can just enjoy the feelings of looking, longing and just being near him without any need to worry about it possibly (albeit not very probably) actually going somewhere.

"Your gaydar is for shit, isn't it? I bet you didn't ping Renly either."

"Renly too?"

"Yup. He and Loras are together."

She's right. My gaydar really is for... really is rubbish. Recent revelations have only served to confirm it. Heat flares in my cheeks as I suddenly recall that Asha and Daenerys had a *thing* once upon a time, and I hope fervently that Asha doesn't realise exactly why I'm blushing. Not that she could really, without spontaneously developing mind reading powers. But I can't help worrying.

A thought occurs to me, making me frown.

"Does everybody..? I mean, are they going to mind you telling me?"

"It's not a secret. Don't worry, I haven't outed anyone against their will." A bitter grimace briefly twists her features, there and gone again so fast I almost wonder if I imagined it. "Given the way you were mooning over Loras, I thought it was better you find out sooner, rather than later."

"I wasn't," I mutter.

Okay, I was totally mooning over him. I just didn't realise I was being so obvious about it.

Asha chuckles, clapping me on the shoulder companionably. I hold back a yelp as she manages to catch me on a sore spot.

"Your face is like a beetroot right now. Did I break your brain a little?"

"No, but I think you might have broken my arm."

Wow. Some kind of devil seems to have gotten into my tongue today. I need to be more careful about watching what I say. Fortunately, Asha doesn't seem offended.

"Sorry," she says, cheerfully. Too cheerfully, if you ask me. "You'll toughen up with more training, don't worry. Anyway, we're never going to get served at this rate. Let me see if I can get someone's attention."

I wince as her dulcet tones ring out loud and clear and far too near my ear, musing that attracting attention is something she's good at.

And I think, really for the first time in a long time (since before...), that I might possibly envy that. I might actually wish I had that ability.

Maybe.

Just a little bit.

Well, who knows? If I can learn to be someone else, and if I can learn to wield a sword, maybe I can also learn that.

Maybe I even want to try.

 

"So, how was your weekend?" Shae asks, her eyes twinkling.

"Good! It was good, thanks. I really enjoyed it."

"The LARP or the re-enactment training?"

I think about that for a moment.

"Both, actually."

I'm surprised to realise that's actually true. I mean, I think -- no, I'm pretty sure -- I enjoyed the LARP session more, overall. But despite an extremely unpromising start, the re-enactment training ended up being a surprising amount of fun. Maybe I'm biased a little bit by the company.

Shae raises her eyebrows.

"Is that so? I look forward to hearing all about it." The bell pings, and we both look over towards the door. "But not right now. It appears that you have a customer."

Cliché as it sounds, Daenerys' smile seems to light up the whole shop, her brilliant blue eyes sparkling as they land on me. I'm helpless to do anything but smile back at her.

It's amazing how a friend's presence can suddenly lift your spirits so much. Not that I was feeling down or anything. Quite the opposite, actually. I was feeling pretty happy anyway, but now I'm feeling... happier.

I step up to the till as she approaches.

"Hello," I say. I know we're supposed to give the whole spiel to every customer, 'Welcome to Hot Coffee,' blah blah blah, even if we know them, but somehow I can't bring myself to do so.

I mean, we're *friends* now.

Aren't we?

(At least until she gets tired of me. Assuming she even meant it in the first place.)

"Good evening," she says.

"Hiya," chirps Doreah, making me start a little. Until she spoke, I hadn't even realised she was there. She loops her arm through Daenerys'. "I'd forgotten that Dany said you worked here."

"Um, yeah. Hi." I look from one of them to the other. "What would you like?"

Daenerys starts to speak, but Dor gets there first.

"Order me a cinnamon latte, would you honey? I'll go stake us out a table. Thanks!" She kisses Daenerys quickly -- I'll never be able to think of her as Dany, no matter how many times I hear it -- and disentangles herself. "Nice, seeing you, Sans!" she calls back.

"Um, likewise," I reply, managing to hold back a frown.

Sans? That sounds like... like some kind of cleaning product. All new Sans! Now with added sparkle.

Gah.

No, I don't think so.

Daenerys watches Dor ensconce herself in a corner, the tiniest of frowns crinkling her brow. Her expression smooths again as she turns back to me, her smile reappearing like the sun emerging from behind a cloud. I bask in its warmth once again.

"Alright, let's try that again," she says. "One medium cinnamon latte, please, made with skimmed milk. No other special requests. And I'll have... Let me see." She scans the board. I ring up the cinnamon latte while she considers her options. "Orange mocha?" she muses, sounding intrigues. "Gingerbread latte? Those are new, aren't they?"

"Two of our Halloween specials," I confirm. "We just got the orange syrup in, plus some other seasonal stuff." I shrug. "Mr Baelish says we need to step up our game a little so we don't lose customers to the 'novelty factor' of other shops' seasonal specials. Or something."

"I see. Well, I've never had an orange mocha before, so let’s start with a large one of those, plus an extra espresso shot. Poured Italian style, of course." I don't ring the drink up yet. Experience has taught me that it's easier to wait until she's finished. "Add half a shot of gingerbread syrup and half a shot of cinnamon, if that's possible."

"I guess so," I say, dubiously. The combination actually sounds pretty sickly to me, but if that's what she wants...

"I think I'll go the whole hog and have whipped cream on top, with one of your Picasso-type designs in toffee syrup, please. And a light dusting of chocolate sprinkles. Oh, and do you have those pumpkin sprinkles they had here last Halloween?"

I check quickly.

"Yes, we do."

"Excellent! I'd like liberal dusting of those, please. And I think that's everything."

Wow. All I can say is, I'm so glad *I* don't have to drink that. I repeat the order back to her, just to make sure, and ring it up. I expect her to go over to Dor, but instead she takes up her usual spot to the side of the counter.

"I can bring them over to your table when they're ready, if you want to go and down," I offer.

"That's alright," she says, smiling. "I've been sitting down for most of the day. I feel the need to stretch my legs a little. Besides, this means I can chat with you a bit, if that's okay."

"That's fine," I say.

Better than fine: it's good. Great, even! Not that I'm going to say that out loud. I don't want to sound too desperate, after all.

"So, how-" I start to ask, at the same time as she says:

"I hope-"

We both break off. Daenerys chuckles softly, and after a beat or two I join in.

("Don't you *ever* interrupt me again. No one wants to hear what you have to say.")

"You go on," she says, smiling kindly.

"No, after you," I say quickly.

"I was just going to say: I hope we didn't make too much of a mess of your place on Saturday night."

"Oh no, it was fine. It didn't take me too long to clear up. Although, I think next time I'm going to try make a start on it the night before, rather than leaving it all until the next morning."

"Next time? So we didn't put you off completely, then?"

"No, not at all," I hasten to reassure her. "I had a great time, both at the LARP and afterwards. I'd love to do it again. I'm already looking forward to next time."

Too much? Almost certainly too much. Way to play it cool, Sansa. But Daenerys is smiling like she doesn't think I'm a babbling, desperate fool.

"Good.  
Daenerys nods, sounding pleased. "That reminds me. It hasn't been finalised yet, but you remember the costume and weapon making workshop we talked about?" I nod. "We're thinking of having it on Saturday afternoon, before the game. We're trying to book a room in the Portland building. What do you think? Will you be able to come along?"

"Um. I'm doing a morning shift here, but I should be free from about one o'clock. Will that be okay?"

"Perfect, actually. We're aiming to start at two. I'm going to send the notice out as soon as we get confirmation on the room booking, which will hopefully be sometime today. Tomorrow at the latest."

"Great. I'll look out for it."

That sounds like fun, but I wonder what I'm going to do about materials. Maybe I can hit the charity shops this week and get hold of some garments to cannibalise.

"So, how was the rest of your weekend?" I ask.

She sighs.

"It was alright. Busy, I guess. I had some work to do, and then there were some details to take care of for the Radford Lights project. Thanks for contacting the Student Housing Office, by the way. We should get a few more signatures from there."

"That's okay," I say, blushing a little at her pleased expression. "I didn't do that much."

Actually, at the time it felt like one of the hardest things I've ever done. I must have rewritten that e-mail several times over before finally getting the courage up to the point where I could actually send it. But I had to do something. I'd said I would help, and that had been almost a week ago.

I'm just glad I didn't have to call them. Or, even worse, ask them in person.

"Nonsense," she says, firmly. "It was a good idea."

I blush again and look down, concentrating on putting the finishing touches to the drinks. Well, mainly Daenerys', carefully drawing an intricate design on the top with toffee syrup. Since she specifically requested it, I make it a little more complicated than usual, eyeing it critically when I'm done.

I think it works.

"So, how was your Sunday?" she asks, and I freeze briefly, immediately regretting opening up this line of questioning.

What do I say? How is she going to respond if I tell her that I let Asha take me to training?

Asha who she had a *Thing* with. That ended badly.

(And I am totally not thinking about the two of them together. Or remembering Dor kissing Daenerys with gleeful abandon. Or anything like that. Anything at all.)

"Here are your drinks," I say brightly, temporising. "One medium cinnamon latte made with skimmed milk and one..." I eye the concoction dubiously. "One Witch's Brew."

She laughs; a mellow, melodious sound that lifts my heart to hear it.

"Witch's Brew? I like it. You should add that to your seasonal menu."

"Um, maybe."

Somehow, I don't think we're going to get many requests for it.

"Anyway, I suppose I'd better take these over before they get cold," she says. "But maybe we can talk later?"

"I'd like that."

And maybe when 'later' comes, I'll have decided what I'm going to say.

 

"So you're actually going back next week?" Shae asks, a note of disbelief in her voice.

I shrug.

"I guess so, yeah."

She looks at me consideringly for a moment. (I wonder what she sees.) I fight the urge to look away, or to fiddle with something.

"Could this have anything to do with this teacher of yours? What was his name? Loras?"

"What? No, of course not." My cheeks are so hot that it almost feels like they're going to burst into flames. "I mean, he's a good teacher, that's all." I hunt around for something, anything to say to disabuse her of this notion. "Anyway, he's in a relationship."

In hindsight, that probably wasn't it.

"Oh he is, is he?" she murmurs, looking far too amused for my good. "And how did you find that out?"

"Um, Asha told me."

"Asha told you what?" Ygritte asks interestedly as she ties on her apron.

"Nothing," I say quickly, getting a sudden flash of how this is going to go and being determined to do my level best to head it off at the pass.

Shae frowns.

"Where have you *been*?" she asks. "You were supposed to be here an hour ago."

"I was busy." Ygritte shrugs, unconcerned. "Did I miss anything exciting?"

"Us being rushed off our feet," says Shae, pointedly.

Ygritte shrugs again.

"Well, I'm here now." She grins at the two of us. Shae rolls her eyes, but doesn't say anything else about Ygritte's lateness. She probably figures she'd just be wasting her breath. And, well, she'd probably be right. I'm just starting to hope that the threat has passed, when she continues. "So, what are we talking about?"

"Sansa was telling me about her weekend," Shae answers.

I curse silently.

"Yeah?" Ygritte regards me interestedly. "Did you do anything good?" She grins wickedly at me. "Like that Reza guy?" While I'm spluttering incoherently, she turns to Shae and says, mock-conspiratorially. "He finally plucked up the courage to confess his feelings to her. Over coffee." To me, she adds: "You never did tell me how that went."

Shae's eyebrows climb towards her hair.

"Sansa?" she says. "Is there something you'd like to share?"

"No! No, I- It wasn't like that. I mean, he did buy me coffee, and we did talk, but we're just friends. That's all. Nothing more than that."

"Oh. Pity." Ygritte looks disappointed for a second, but then her expression brightens. "Does that mean he's up for grabs, then?"

"Um, I guess," I say slowly, making a mental note to give Reza a heads-up. I mean, he might well be interested, and that's fine, but just in case he isn't... Well, I know I'd like to have some warning if someone as determined as Ygritte wanted to pounce on me.

A guy, I mean.

I mean...

Oh, never mind.

"So, what did you get up to at the weekend?" she asks, sounding genuinely interested.

"Well, on Saturday I went to a live-action roleplaying game. I-"

"Sounds kinky!" she says, beaming. "I approve."

"No! No, it's not!" I burst out, horrified. "It's... It's..."

My mind goes blank, and I can't find the words.

Ygritte starts giggling helplessly and Shae glowers at her.

"Ygritte, don't torment the poor girl."

"Sorry," she gasps out, not sounding sorry in the slightest. "I just couldn't resist." Sobering a little, she continues. "I know what you mean, don't worry. But, oh my god, your *face*."

And she's off again.

I try to smile along with her, but my heart just isn't in it. I know she doesn't mean any harm, that her humour isn't malicious, but I really don't like being laughed at.

"How were your weekends?" I ask, looking from one of them to the other, hoping to distract Ygritte from her mirth. And Shae from asking any more questions about Loras. "Did you get up to anything interesting?"

Shae sighs.

"I was mostly working, unfortunately."

"Well, I had a *great* weekend," Ygritte says, apparently finally over her fit of laughter at my expense. "I went to a party on Friday night, and didn't get back home until Sunday. Best. Party. *Ever.*"

As she tells us all about it, I can't help envying her, just a little. Life seems so simple for her, so uncomplicated. She does what she wants, when she wants; no second-guessing, no self-doubt.

It must be nice.

Oh, who am I kidding? That could never be me.

But that's fine, because I kind of get the feeling that things are beginning to change for me. And it all started when Daenerys Targaryen walked into my life.

I automatically glance over in her direction. She and Doreah seem to be deeply engaged in conversation, leaning over the table so that their faces are no more than inches apart. (Maybe they're going to kiss again.) Except... Their expressions aren't exactly what I would call happy. And as for their body language... Even as I watch, Doreah shoves her hair back with a short, angry motion, muttering something that makes Daenerys level such a glare at her that I'm almost surprised she doesn't burst into flames right where she sits.

They're fighting.

The realisation hits me like a slap, making my stomach twist with a confusing welter of emotions that I can't even begin to name.

(Maybe they're breaking up.)

I hope it's nothing serious.

(Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing.)

I hope...

(Maybe...)

I hope everything's okay.

I really hope everything's okay.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for leaving this fallow for such a long time. The next chapter's mostly ready, so that at least shouldn't be such a long time coming.

I pause in the corridor to catch my breath and collect myself, trying by sheer force of will to make my heart slow to something approaching its normal rate.

It doesn't work.

Why am I feeling so nervous? There isn't going to be anyone here I haven't met before. I *know* they're all nice people. Some of them have even been to my house. I've cleared up their take-away cartons! It's ridiculous to feel shy. Utterly and completely ridiculous.

I guess I'm just ridiculous, then.

Alright. Never mind. I'll count to five and then I'll knock. Right. Deep breath. One. Two. Thr-

"Hello, Sansa. You're here early."

The voice comes from the corridor behind me. I turn to smile at Daenerys, a little taken aback to see her dressed, not in one of her usual smart skirts and blouses, but in motorcycle leathers.

They suit her surprisingly well.

(*Really* well, actually.)

"Um, hi Daenerys. Yeah, Shae came in a little early, so she said I could go." It helped that Asha wasn't in to say otherwise. I think she's working on her boat today. (It’s probably for the best, considering.) "Uh, do you need any help setting up?"

"That would be great, thanks. Let me just get this door open. Can you hold this box for a moment? And my helmet?"

"Sure."

"Thanks." I brace myself, but despite being a large, heavy-duty plastic affair — I’m impressed that she managed to fit it on the back of her bike — the box is actually quite light. In a few moments, she has the door unlocked and wedged open, retrieving her helmet from its precarious perch on top of the box. "Could you set the box down on that table over there? Thanks."

I can't help feeling relieved when I manage to do as she asks without dropping the box, or tripping over something, or causing any other mishap. I would have been totally mortified if I’d messed it up. In fact, I can feel my face starting to warm just from the thought of it. To distract myself, I turn to Daenerys.

"What do you need me to do?"

She looks around the room.

"Let's start by pushing these tables together."

"Okay."

Between the two of us, it doesn't take long. I keep thinking that I should say something; initiate a conversation, but I find myself feeling strangely shy, oddly tongue-tied. Daenerys also doesn't seem to be in much of a mood for conversation, only speaking to give the occasional direction. I sneak glances as we work, noting the faraway stare, the frown that creeps over her face. She seems distracted, maybe even worried.

I wonder what's wrong.

I wonder if she’ll tell me if I ask.

(I wonder if she’ll think I'm prying.)

(If it would be annoying)

A friend would ask, wouldn't they?

(The crack of a hand against my face rocking my head back, making me bite my tongue. "I thought you knew better than to embarrass me by questioning me, you little *bitch*!")

We are friends, aren't we?

(I don't want to drive her away.)

(I don’t want her to be *angry* with me.)

I take a moment to gather my courage -- what little there is of it -- and then, hardly believing that I'm doing this, I make myself ask the question.

"Are you... Is everything alright?"

Daenerys jerks around to face me, looking startled. She doesn't answer right way, the silence lasting long enough for me to second, third and fourth-guess myself; for an apology to make its way onto the tip of my tongue.

Okay, she probably hesitates for no longer than a couple of breaths at most, but it feels like forever.

Eventually, though, she gives me a rueful smile. The knot in my stomach starts to untwist.

"Is it that obvious?" she asks, softly.

I start to nod, then stop, not wanting to admit to watching her, to learning her expressions and body language.

For my story.

(And because I've never met anyone so compelling, not in my whole life.)

(Not even Loras.)

(I couldn't keep my eyes off her if I tried.)

(And... I don't think I want to try.)

"You look worried?" I say, cautiously, not intending it to be a question, but turning it into one nonetheless.

Daenerys lets out a sigh, her usually perfect posture sagging a little. All of a sudden, she looks tired.

"I had a fight with Doreah last night. A bad one."

“Oh.” I study Daenerys covertly, looking for clues; for guidance. I know what I want to say, but… Oh, heck. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask quietly.

“Yes. No. I don’t know.” She sighs again, and then looks over her shoulder at me, her lips twisted in a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “It hardly seems fair to drag you into my relationship drama.”

My heart thumps painfully in my chest, but I can’t for the life of me think why. Maybe it’s just the thought of being right in the middle of someone else’s argument. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.

“It’s alright,” I say. “You’re not dragging me into anything. I’m offering.” I shrug, hoping I don’t seem as timid as I feel. “Sometimes it can help to talk things over with…” A stranger? No, that’s not true anymore, is it? An outsider? No, not quite right. “With someone who isn’t involved,” I finish.

Daenerys looks torn.

“You really don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind,” I confirm.

“Alright then.” She crosses the room to kick the wedge out from under the door, giving me a rueful shrug as she closes it. “Paranoia, sorry,” she says. “I just don’t want anyone to overhear me.”

“I understand, and it’s fine.” And it is, but my pulse speeds up anyway, the room suddenly feeling so much smaller than it did with the door open. Which is just ridiculous. Anyway, why *should* I be feeling nervous?

There are only the two of us here, after all.

“I feel a little disloyal talking about Doreah behind her back,” Daenerys mutters. “But I think I do need to talk to someone.” She sighs heavily, and then squares her shoulders, reaching forward to unclip and open the plastic box. “The fight last night… I just can’t stop going over it in my mind.” As she talks, she pulls out packets of needles, spools of thread, twists of ribbon and neatly folded stretches of material from the box, arranging them on the table. I think about offering to help, but I’m not sure there’s anything I could do without getting in her way.

Besides, I don’t want to interrupt her.

I sit down in a nearby chair.

“It was stupid, really,” she continues. “We were discussing what to do for our semi-anniversary next week. A normal, supposedly happy couple’s conversation, you know?”

“Yes,” I say, more to acknowledge that I’m listening than anything else.

(She and Doreah have been together six months? Wow. I’m… unsure how to feel about that.)

“Well, first of all, we couldn’t agree on what to do. She wanted to go out clubbing, I wanted to stay in. We… ran into difficulties trying to reach a compromise. But then I realised that I’d accidentally made plans for the date itself.” She grimaces. “That was entirely my fault, I admit. Mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. But it really didn’t go down well.”

“I can imagine,” I murmur.

I know I’d be disappointed if my significant other forgot our semi-anniversary. But I’m sure Daenerys had a good reason. And, anyway, no doubt she’s planning on making it up to Doreah.

Or, well, was planning to, before this fight.

Daenerys abandons her task to sink into a chair, turning her head to look directly at me.

“The next thing I know, we’re *screaming* at each other. She’s accusing me of being selfish and not wanting to commit to our relationship, and I…” She pulls a face. “I said some quite unpleasant things in return.”

“Oh.”

That doesn’t really sound like the Daenerys I know, but I guess people do say things in the heat of the moment; things they wouldn’t normally say.

“Anyway, it ended up with her storming off in a huff and we haven’t spoken since.” She glances down, restlessly fiddling with the zipper of her jacket. “We haven’t even so much as texted each other. And I know I should probably apologise, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to do it.” She shakes her head. “Sometimes I just feel so *tired* of it all,” she murmurs.

I fold my hands together to stop myself giving into the totally bizarre and uncharacteristic urge to give Daenerys a hug. (It *is* bizarre. I’m just not normally a huggy type of person.) She just looks so sad. I struggle to find some words of wisdom, something I can tell her that will bring the sparkle back to her eyes.

“Well, people can say all kinds of things they don’t mean when they’re angry,” I say, somewhat lamely. “Maybe you both just need a little space to cool down.”

“That’s just it,” she says seriously. “I think I *did* mean the things I said.”

“Have… Were the two of you been having problems before?” I ask hesitantly. “Or is this something new?”

“I think it’s been building for a while.” Daenerys’ eyes are shadowed and distant, her expression unreadable. “We just don’t seem have all that much in common sometimes. And I think…” She sighs, propping one elbow on the table and resting her chin on her hand. “We want different things. I never intended… I never thought we would become something serious.”

“So, Doreah wants… serious?”

I feel like I’m groping blindly around in the dark, like I’m out of my depth in strange waters. What do I know about relationships? What advice can I possibly offer? And yet she seems to be considering my question like it actually deserves an answer.

She gives a lopsided shrug. “I think so,” she says slowly.

“And you don’t?”

“I don’t know what I want.”

The words sit there between us, heavy and heartfelt and hurt. Daenerys looks almost surprised that they came out of her mouth, like she didn’t know they were waiting there inside her.

“Maybe you should try and figure that out first,” I say.

Instinctively, I reach out and touch her hand, trying to convey my support through the light physical contact. But she looks at it like it’s an alien creature or something, so I snatch it back as gracefully as I can, folding both of my hands together in my lap.

“Maybe I should,” she agrees, and her voice sounds tight and unhappy. I’m still trying to figure out how to apologise for whatever I did wrong, when she springs to her feet so suddenly that it makes me jump a little. (At least I didn’t squeak, I suppose. Thank heaven for small mercies.) “Anyway,” she says, briskly. “I think that’s enough about my problems for now. I need to get changed out of my leathers before I roast.” She smiles at me, and I find myself smiling back. “Thank you for listening, Sansa.”

“A- Anytime,” I manage to stutter.

I mean it, too.

Even if I don’t think I was any help whatsoever.

(The story of my life.)

(But maybe… Maybe it doesn’t have to be?)

 

* * * * *

 

Asha looks at me like she’s never seen me before.

“You’re really coming back next week?”

I shrug, focusing my attention on packing up my training gear so I don’t have to see her inevitable scorn at the thought that I’m maybe not completely horrible at the whole ‘swinging a sword around’ thing.

“It’s more fun than I was expecting.” Asha snorts loudly, making me twitch a little, but I continue gamely on. “Loras seems to think I’m doing okay with the basics, and I think I’d like to learn a little more at least. I mean,” I add hurriedly. “I’m not saying I’m going to continue indefinitely, and even if I do stick with it I may never actually spar properly with anyone, but I’m definitely going to come along next week.”

I glance up tentatively, startled beyond belief to see a broad smile spreading across her face.

“Good for you, Stark!” she bellows, clapping me firmly on the shoulder. I yelp a little, but find myself smiling back at her, feeling surprisingly good about the prospect of more swordplay.

“Careful, Viking!” Renly calls out. “You’ll knock the poor lass over.” He levels what’s probably supposed to be a stern look at her, but the effect is somewhat spoiled by the smirk on his lips. And by the way he winks at me as he draws near.

“Fuck off, Frenchy,” Asha tells him, the cheerfulness of her tone belying the words. “Nobody asked you.”

“Next time she does that, just dodge out of her way,” he mock-whispers to me. “If we’re really lucky, she’ll overbalance and fall on her arse.”

“I’ll knock *you* on your arse if you’re not careful,” Asha retorts.

He laughs. “I’d like to see you-“ Loras catches his eye. “Actually *not* set a bad example for the new recruits with any extra-curricular rough-housing, if you don’t mind,” he continues, as if that was what he was planning to say all along.

I don’t think anyone’s fooled, least of all Loras.

“Nice save,” Asha says, sarcastically.

“I thought so,” Renly smirks back.

Loras just shakes his head and says nothing.

“Why are you in such boisterous high spirits, anyway?” Renly wants to know.

“Sansa’s decided she’s going to stick with the training.” It’s funny, Asha sounds almost proud. I guess she did technically recruit me, so maybe it reflects well on her if I stick around? I don’t know.

“Good for you, Sansa.” Renly beams at me like he’s actually pleased. “I’m glad the barbarian here hasn’t driven you off with her uncouth ways.” Asha makes an exceptionally vulgar gesture in his direction, which he pointedly ignores. “Of course, you know what this means…”

“Um, no…?” I wonder if I should be worried.

“It means the time has come.” He cups his hands together and bellows loud enough to be heard right over at the other end of the field, where the last few stragglers are still standing around and chatting. “Gather round, everybody! We’re doing a naming ceremony.”

There’s a ragged cheer from some of the older members, but most of this year’s newbies seem just as confused as I am. Loras takes pity on me, coming over to murmur softly in my ear.

“It’s just a silly tradition. Nothing to worry about, honestly.” He smiles kindly at me, and my cheeks flood with warmth.

“Thank you,” I whisper. He nods to me, and then goes to stand next to Renly.

“So, you’ve probably noticed that we old hands all have nicknames,” Renly says, somehow seeming to make eye contact with every single one of the newbies, myself included. “Well, these don’t just arise by accident. Over the years, it’s become something of a tradition for standing members of the society to choose a suitable sobriquet for each new recruit who actually decides to commit. A nom de guerre, if you will.”

“No prizes for guessing why we call *him* Frenchy,” Asha calls.

“And I’m sure you can all guess how Little Miss Brute-Force-and-Ignorance over here came to be known as Viking,” he retorts.

She grins. “Damn right.”

“*Anyway*,” he says. “Interruptions aside, those of this year’s recruits who are still showing up: congratulations. Your turn has come. So, without further ado, let the naming ceremony commence. You!” He points at Andy, a grinning man who’s built like the proverbial brick outhouse. I seem to remember something about him being a rugby player. “Come over here and let everyone get a look at you. Suggestions please, ladies and gents — what comes to mind when you see Andy?”

As far as I can tell, this ‘naming ceremony’ mainly consists of people calling out suggestions for nicknames until one finds general favour. Or until someone can outshout everyone else. When one’s been selected, Renly congratulates the lucky recipient of their new moniker and calls up the next candidate.

It doesn’t seem so bad, I guess. At least I don’t have to actually *do* anything.

(I try to ignore the little voice whispering at the back of my mind, telling me that I’m a fraud for going along with this when I haven’t actually decided once and for all to commit to the Living History society. I did *tell* Asha that I was only committing to one more week.)

(But, what can I do? I can’t say anything now.)

(I guess I’ll just have to go along with it, and hope everyone doesn’t think too badly of me if I end up quitting after all.)

To no one’s great surprise, Andy ends up being dubbed ‘Brick.’ It actually kind of suits him. Certainly, he seems pretty pleased by it.

One by one, Renly calls the new recruits forward to receive their new names. None of them are *utterly* horrible, I suppose. Notwithstanding the poor guy who gets landed with ‘Pod’ for no reason at all that I can see. Apparently there are restrictions — no obscenities, no slurs, nothing you couldn’t call out in a crowded place without getting death glares from all and sundry. But apart from that, anything goes.

“And now, last but most definitely not least, is the lovely Sansa Stark.”

Suddenly all eyes are on me. I swallow nervously and try to stand up straight. Alanna Stone wouldn’t hunch in on herself to try to make herself small and unnoticeable, I tell myself. She’d stand here like a queen; like the limelight was her natural habitat.

Taking a deep breath, I lift my head and do my best to channel my inner high mage.

I think it helps, a little.

Although my cheeks still feel like they’re on fire.

“Any suggestions?” asks Renly.

“How about Pippin?” says Asha. I’m confused. “Pink Lady?” she continues. Nope, still none the wiser. “Honeycrisp?” Wait, I know that one. It’s variety of apple, right? Actually, they’re all apples.

Red apples.

Oh. Right. Very funny.

I’m sure anyone looking at my face right now can easily deduce her train of thought. Sure enough, a couple of wags in the crowd follow up with their own suggestions of things known for their carmine hue.

Actually, Scarlet wouldn’t be too bad. I could live with that.

The rest of the suggestions seem to be split between references to my height — as if I didn’t already know I’m considered unusually tall for a woman — and some variation on a princess theme. Princess Peach, Princess Buttercup — neither of those are too horrible, I guess, if a bit of a mouthful to yell across a field — just plain Princess, and…. Who the heck is Princess Bubblegum?

However, none of my putative ‘nommes des guerre’ seem to gain overall favour among the crowd.

“How about Rose?” Loras suggests.

Asha rolls her eyes. “Should’ve expected that from you, *Flowers*.”

“You’re just jealous because he smells better than you do,” Renly says, elbowing her in the side. She elbows him back, staggering him a little.

I’m glad it’s not just me she nearly knocks over sometimes.

I wonder idly how Loras came by his nickname, but no one seems inclined to explain. Maybe I can ask him in the pub afterwards.

“Anyway, Rose sounds a bit soft.” Asha says dismissively.

“Roses do have thorns,” Loras points out. He gives me a small smile, and I just about melt inside. “Anyway, I think it suits her.”

I smile back at him.

“Sounds good to me,” Renly says. “What about the rest of you?”

They seem to approve. Or, at least, no one seems to have any objections. Even Asha subsides with only a token mutter of:

“I still like Pippin.”

“Okay, then. The people have spoken. Congratulations, Rose.” Renly grins at me, then turns back to the crowd. “I now pronounce this naming ceremony complete. Now let’s get to the pub before we all die of thirst!”

Now *that* meets with unanimous approval.

 

* * * * *

 

“Hey Sansa.” Reza smiles at me, and I smile back as I finish making the drink I’m working on and hand it to the waiting customer.

“Hi Reza.” I glance up at the list of upcoming orders, and then look back to him again, faintly puzzled when the only latte on there isn’t marked ‘to go’. “Drinking in today?”

“Yeah. I don’t have to rush off anywhere for once, so I thought I’d actually sit and drink my coffee like a civilised person.” He shifts from foot to foot, looking a little self-conscious. “I thought maybe we could chat for a bit. If that’s alright with you.” I start to reply, but he interrupts, words tumbling out in a rush. “As friends, I mean. I’m not going to ask you out again, don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” I reassure him.

Much to my surprise, I realise that it’s actually true. I always used to be a tiny little on edge around him, like maybe my subconscious was picking up on subtle cues that he liked me. Cues that the rest of me was apparently oblivious to. But our talk the other day seems to have cleared the air. We know where we stand now. I know where I stand.

(I know — well, I’m pretty sure — he won’t get angry with me, even if I tell him something he doesn’t want to hear.)

“And yes,” I continue. “It would be nice to chat. I’ve actually got a break coming up just as soon as I’ve finished this batch of orders. If you don’t mind waiting a couple of minutes, we can *both* sit down like civilised people.” I smile at him, and he smiles back.

“Great!” he says enthusiastically. “You can leave my drink until last, then. And, uh, can I get one for you?”

I take a deep breath, trying to inhale confidence with it.

(I’m sure he won’t react badly, really, but instinct can be a hard thing to fight.)

“No, that’s alright, thank you,” I say. “Anyway, you paid for my mocha last time, so I should probably be buying *you* coffee.”

He laughs. “You don’t have to do that. Anyway, I’ve paid for it already, so it’s a moot point.”

He nods like that settles the matter and, bizarrely, I find myself wanting to say something along the lines of: ‘We’ll see about that.’

(But I don’t, of course I don’t, because that isn’t me at all. I don’t challenge people, or argue with them, or state my opinions like they actually *matter*. I just don’t. That’s not who I am.)

Instead, I say: “Why don’t you take a seat? I’ve only got a couple of orders to go, so I’ll be done shortly.”

“Is that a ‘go away and stop distracting me from my work, Reza’?”

I freeze.

“No! No, I wasn’t saying that at all. I wouldn’t! I-“

“Whoa, whoa, okay, Sansa.” Reza makes placating gestures, like he’s trying to calm a spooked horse or something. “I was just joking around. I wasn’t offended or anything.”

“Oh. Okay. Sorry.” My cheeks burn, and I focus on making blended coffee drinks as if they’re they only thing in the world.

I am *so* embarrassed right now.

(I guess maybe my subconscious really hasn’t got the message yet.)

(Why does it sometimes feel like I manage to one step forwards, only to then take two steps back again?)

“I’ll just go and sit down over here.” Reza sounds about as awkward as I feel right now. Weirdly, that actually makes me feel a little better.

I nod without quite looking at him, and then turn my attention back to the task at hand.

Maybe by the time I’m done, I’ll have stopped blushing.

I can always hope!

 

* * * * *

 

“There you go,” I say, setting the drink and pastry down in front of Reza.

He glances down at it and then looks back to me, raising his eyebrows. “What’s this?”

“A cinnamon roll.” I try to keep a straight face, but can’t help grinning at his confusion.

(Something inside me unclenches when he grins back at me, clearly amused — rather than annoyed — at my accurate but unhelpful answer.)

“I meant, *why* is there a cinnamon roll there? I didn’t order one.”

“I got it for you. My treat. I know you like them and, as I said, you did buy me a mocha last time.”

I don’t know why it’s so important to me that I return the gesture, but it is. Maybe it would still feel a little too much like a date if I let him buy things for me without getting him anything in return. Who knows?

“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.

“I know, but I wanted to. Anyway, I’ve paid for it already, so it’s a moot point.”

He laughs as I parrot his own words back to him. “Fair enough,” he says. “Thank you, Sansa.

“You’re welcome. Back in a moment.” I head over the counter and retrieve my own drink — plus a Belgian chocolate muffin, because ohmygod, those things are *heavenly* — and take a seat across for him. “So, how was your weekend?”

“Pretty good, thanks. Some friends and I had a Lord of the Rings marathon. It was a lot of fun, even if we did have to talk Anguy out of trying to imitate some of Legolas’ more ridiculous shots.” He lowers his voice mock-confidingly. “Just between you and me, I think he might have been a little inebriated.”

“It’s probably a good job you talked him out of it, then,” I observe. “Does that kind of thing happen often?”

“Sometimes,” he replies, cagily.

There’s something about his tone, something that makes me wonder…

”Have *you* ever tried to imitate any ridiculous movie archery?”

He occupies himself with unravelling his cinnamon roll, avoiding my eyes. “Not that anyone will ever prove,” he mutters. I’m kind of intrigued and want to know more, but he doesn’t give me the chance. “How was *your* weekend?” he asks quickly, like he can tell what I’m thinking.

Pity.

I’ll just have to ask him another time.

“It was good, thank you.” I start to tell him about the costume-making workshop, then have to back up and explain about the LARP. I’m a little self-conscious at first, but then my enthusiasm overcomes it and it isn’t long before I’m babbling away happily. 

(I just hope I don’t sound like a complete fool.)

“LARP *and* re-enactment? Wow, Sansa, you’re hard-core!” There’s something… admiring? In his voice and gaze, and I cover my embarrassment by taking a sip of my mocha.

“Not really,” I protest. And really, never has a word been so far from the truth. (Might as well call me graceful, or pretty, or clever.) “Anyway, I’ve only been going for a couple of weeks. And I’m more interested in the roleplaying and historical stuff than in the running around with weapons part of it.”

Even though that part hasn’t been anywhere near as horrible as I was expecting. Loras even said that I was doing well, and that I was a fast learner. (He was probably just being polite, but still. It was nice.)

“Well, I’m still impressed.” I don’t really know what to say to that, so I just smile and duck my head. “I used to do some table top roleplaying in secondary school, but then I got distracted by archery. And fencing.”

“You fence, too?” I look up, interest pushing my embarrassment aside. “Which weapon?”

“Mostly foil, but I’ve just started leaning epee. It’s a little different to what I’m used to, but it’s still fun.”

“My sister fences sabre,” I tell him.

“Heh. I might have known a sister of yours would be hard-core too. The sabreurs are the crazy ones! Um, no offence.”

“None taken.” I can’t help grinning. “Arya would take that as a compliment.” I make a mental note to pass it on to her later.

We chat about our respective families for a little while (Reza has two older brothers; identical twins), and the time just seems to disappear. Before I know it, my break is over.

“It’s time for me to get back to work, I’m afraid,” I sigh, getting to my feet and starting to stack our plates and cups together. “But this was fun.”

“It was,” Reza agrees, beaming. “We’ll have to do it again. Um, if you want to, that is.”

“I’d like that.”

I’d almost forgotten what is was like to have friends, and now I seem to be making new ones all the time.

(And it all started with Daenerys.)

(I’m so very glad I met her.)

(I’m so happy that she’s my friend.)


	11. Chapter 11

I stare at my phone as if that will magically make more words appear.

It doesn’t.

I read the text again, even though I already know all the words off by heart. It isn’t a very long message, nor is it especially complicated. Daenerys wants to know if it would be alright for her to come over for a little bit.

To talk.

It’s a perfectly straightforward message. Perfectly clear and comprehensible.

I just can’t for the life of me think why she sent it. Could she have meant it for someone else? Doreah, perhaps? Hard to get our numbers mixed up, though.

No, I think she must have meant it for me. But why?

Somewhat belatedly, it occurs to me that I should probably reply. I wouldn’t want her to think I’m ignoring her.

Of course it’s fine for her to visit. I’m not working today, and I’ve already finished this week’s coursework. (And she knows both of those things, because I mentioned them to her earlier in the week.) I don’t have any particular plans for today other than putting the finishing touches to my costume before tonight’s LARP.

I tell Daenerys she can come over anytime today.

A few moments later, my phone beeps again.

She wants to come over right now?

Well, I did say anytime. And it isn’t like it’s a problem. I guess I just wasn’t expecting…

Well, I guess I get to find out what this is about all the sooner. Which is good, because the curiosity is killing me.

I text her back, and then set about trying to make my room look vaguely presentable.

(I’m not assuming she’ll want to come up here, but my housemates are about and she might want privacy for whatever she wants to talk about. If it’s about Doreah, I mean.)

I wonder what she wants?

 

* * * * *

 

At first, I ignore the sound of the motorbike pulling up outside. But a few moments later I hear footsteps echoing in the narrow passageway between this house and the one next door and it belatedly occurs to me that yes, Daenerys probably would use her bike to get here.

Sure enough, there comes a knock at the kitchen door. (We can’t use the front door, because the front room belongs to one of my housemates. You’d be surprised at how many people don’t seem to see the sign telling visitors to come around the back.)

“I’ll get it,” I tell my housemates, leaping to my feet. “It’s probably my friend.”

Daenerys is wearing leathers again, her helmet hanging loosely from one hand. I don’t know why the sight discombobulates me so, but it does.

Belatedly, I remember my manners and invite her into the house, leading her through into the living room where my housemates look up with interest.

“Thank you.” She smiles at me, but it doesn’t quite seem to reach her eyes. She looks… tired.

“Um, these are two of my housemates, Farah and Indira. This is my friend Daenerys.” The three of them greet each other, Farah eyeing Daenerys with open curiosity. Indira is a little more circumspect, but I can tell she’s also curious. “Do you want a coffee or something?” I ask.

“You’re not working today, remember?” Daenerys’ tone is gently teasing, and I flush to the roots of my hair. I start to stutter something incoherent in reply, but luckily she saves me before I can make a total fool of myself. “Actually, a coffee would be great, if you don’t mind.”

I manage to recover my composure.

“I don’t have a machine, I’m afraid, but I do have a cafetiere and some fresh beans. Plus, a small set of syrups. Um, wait a minute.” I duck into the kitchen to check the packet. “Just hazelnut, gingerbread, peppermint and caramel. Oh, and I have chocolate powder if you’d like a mocha.”

She thinks for a moment.

“Could I please have an extra strong espresso with hazelnut syrup and just a dash of milk?”

“Of course. Oh, um, please have a seat.”

I gesture vaguely around the living room. In lieu of armchairs, we have two small, mis-matched sofas, one of which is occupied by my housemates. There are hard-backed chairs at the battered dining table, but they’re about as comfortable as they look.

Daenerys settles gracefully onto the unoccupied sofa, setting her helmet to one side, together with the small backpack I hadn’t even noticed she had slung over one shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says.

I turn to my housemates. “Um, do either of you want a coffee or anything?”

“Just a plain espresso, please,” says Farah, the bulk of her attention still on Daenerys.

“Would a hazelnut mocha be too much trouble?” Indira asks, looking hopeful.

“Not at all.” I smile at her, and then turn to address all three of them. “I won’t be long.”

I head into the kitchen. As I start to bustle around, I hear the conversation start up again behind me.

Sounds like it’s the usual ‘what are you studying, what year are you in?’ ritual common to the greater spotted student.

“Third year medic here,” Farah is saying cheerfully.

I’m not trying to eavesdrop or anything, but the connecting door is open and the sound carries really well. Honestly, I’d have to try *not* to overhear.

“English lit, second year.” Indira sounds half-asleep, as usual. She isn’t, though. It took me a little while to realise it, but she’s not tired all the time, she’s just extremely laid back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her even the slightest bit stressed. But she never seems to miss anything going on around her - as far as I can tell - and once in a while she'll drawl something surprisingly incisive about whatever is going on.

“Indira has the 'honour' of being the sole representative of the humanities in this house,” Farah observes drolly. “Soo-Jin — our other housemate — is a physicist, and you probably already know Sansa’s studying cognitive neuroscience.”

Well… okay. Maybe I am just a *bit* curious about what my housemates are going to talk about with Daenerys.

Hey, I’m only human.

“I don’t know how I cope.” Indira sighs dramatically before adding: “Still, I have high hopes of being able civilise this lot eventually. Even if I don’t seem to have managed it with Farah yet.”

“Hey!” I laugh quietly to myself at Farah’s mock-indignation. The word is followed by a short period of silence — no doubt my housemates are having a staring match while Daenerys, apparently, does an admirable job of holding in laughter.

Eventually Indira breaks the silence, "So, what about you?"

"Second year law, for my sins."

"Ah, a potential ally against the heathen hordes," Indira says at the same time Farah raises her voice and calls into the kitchen: "Sansa, are you letting just *anyone* into the house these days?"

I resist the urge to shrink into myself - after a few months living with them, they've trained me out of that impulse, at least a little - and reply, in a somewhat softer tone, "Do you want that espresso or not?"

She doesn't say anything in response, but I can just imagine her doing her usual mime of zipping her mouth shut.

If Daenerys says anything in response to Indira, I don't manage to catch it, and silence falls in the other room, for at least a few moments, until Farah clears her throat.

“So,” she says. “Daenerys.”

“Yes?”

“You have a motorbike?”

“No, I just like dressing the part,” Daenerys replies gravely. I can imagine her quirking an eyebrow. “Yes, I do,” she adds, in a much lighter tone. “I have for a few years, now.”

“Isn’t it dangerous?” Indira wants to know.

“Only if you’re don’t know what you’re doing.”

“You know, the medics have a nickname for motorcyclists,” Farah says, and there’s a mischievous lilt to her voice that I recognise.

“Oh?”

“We call them organ donors.” Farah pronounces the words with relish, making me wince. I try to work faster.

Daenerys doesn’t reply straight away, and I really wish I could see into the living room right now, because it seems like a particularly fraught kind of silence to me.

(I’ve had far too much practice at identifying those.)

When she does respond, her tone is glacial.

“That isn’t funny.”

I can almost feel the temperature drop several degrees.

“Um, sorry,” Farah says slowly. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

I hurriedly finish off the drinks and put them on a tray, barely even taking the time to make sure the load is properly balanced before I pick it up and head through.

(Part of me is tempted to hide in the kitchen until the unpleasantness is over, but I can’t. I have to try and head this off before it gets bad. I *have* to.)

(Even though I’m quivering like jelly inside.)

(I wish I wasn’t such a…)

(“-pathetic little scaredy-cat!”)

(…coward.)

“You should be more careful what you say,” Daenerys is saying as I enter the living room. “I’ve… I used to know someone who was killed in a bike accident. I don’t think his family would appreciate that kind of… humour.”

The way her voice wavers a little — just a little — makes me think that this wasn’t just someone she knew, but someone she was close to. My heart breaks for her as I wonder who she lost.

“I *said* I was sorry.”

Uh oh. There’s an edge to Farah’s voice that means her contrition is on the brink of becoming irritation. And Daenerys’ back is ramrod straight, her eyes glinting in a way that reminds me of the fact that *Asha* thinks she has a temper.

(Even though unease claws at my gut, and I have to concentrate to keep my hands steady enough not to rattle the drinks on the tray, I can’t help feeling something like awe at Daenerys’ sheer *presence*.)

(I know I’ll never in a million years be able to capture anything like it in prose, but I really want to try.)

“Drinks are ready!” I say brightly, doing my best impression of being utterly oblivious to whatever might or might not be about to kick off between my housemate and my friend. I offer the tray first to Farah, ‘accidentally’ breaking hers and Daenerys’ eye line as I do so.

She takes the cup with a tight, muttered: “Thank you.”

“Thanks, Sansa.” Indira beams at me as she snags her own drink. To anyone who doesn’t know her, she would seem unaware of the awkwardness in the room, but the careful glance she darts towards Farah tells me otherwise. “Oh, this smells *heavenly*. There are definite benefits to having a housemate who works in a coffee shop! Don’t you think so, Farah?”

“I guess so,” Farah says grudgingly, a beat later.

“I’m glad you approve,” I say lightly, even managing something like a smile of my own. (Although I’m sure it doesn’t come anywhere near my eyes.)

I turn and cross the room towards Daenerys, but don’t hold out the tray.

“Um, shall we take these upstairs?”

My heart flutters a little in my chest. Will she think I’m being presumptuous? But she said she wanted to talk, and she might not want to do that in front of strangers. Well, I guess it might be about the Radford Lights project, but then wouldn’t she have said that in her text?

Anyway, I think separating her and Farah right now could only be a good thing.

I manage to avoid biting my lip while I wait for her reply.

“Of course,” she says, her tone perfectly neutral again. (Although anger still sparks in the depths of her eyes, making me swallow nervously despite my best intentions to appear calm.) “Nice to meet you,” she says in the general direction of Farah and Indira.

Well, mainly Indira.

“Likewise!” she says with a smile. Farah just sips her coffee and says nothing.

That’s probably for the best.

 

* * * * *

 

“Your room’s in the attic?” Daenerys asks as I continue on up the second flight of stairs.

I *think* I left the door to my room open. I hope I did, anyway. The stairs are too narrow for Daenerys to squeeze past me to open it, especially when I’m carrying these drinks.

“Yep, right at the top of the house.” Oh, thank goodness. The door is open. I step carefully over the threshold and cross the room to set the tray down on the little table that serves as my desk. “Come on in.”

“It’s bigger than I would have expected. It must stretch the whole length of the house.”

“The benefit of being all the way up here in the stratosphere. It gets a little cold sometimes, though.” I make a mental note to buy another hot water bottle. One just isn’t enough on the chillier nights.

She turns around slowly, taking in the whole room, her gaze lingering on the posters and prints I put up to cover the bland beige walls. She laughs a little as she looks up.

“You have stars on your ceiling.”

“Um, yeah.” My face flushes a little with embarrassment. Does she think I’m childish? (It’s probably childish.)

“Wait a minute, that’s Orion, isn’t it? And Cassiopeia. And…” She laughs again, but despite the instinctive hunch of my shoulders, and the embarrassed heat in my cheeks, there’s no mockery in it. Maybe there’s even something that could perhaps be… admiration? “That’s great, Sansa. I didn’t know you were a stargazer.”

“I’m not, really,” I demur shyly. “I mean, I enjoy it, but I’m a bit of a wimp when it comes to the cold, so it’s hard to motivate myself to get out there a lot of the time. It’s more my brother Rob’s thing, really. He used to drag me out skywatching when I was younger. He helped me put these up.” I shift a little self-consciously, unable to interpret her expression. My gaze falls on the steaming mugs. “Oh! We’d better drink our coffee before it gets cold.” I hand Daenerys’ mug to her, and then take my own, folding myself awkwardly into my slightly-too-short desk chair. “Please, take a seat.”

I wave my hand vaguely in the direction of the lone armchair, a match to one of the sofas downstairs.

“Thank you,” she says, sinking gracefully into its depths with an elegance I couldn’t match if my life depended on it.

We both sip our drinks, and the silence settles companionably over us. I think about asking Daenerys how she is; maybe even broaching the subject of why she wanted to come over, but I’m not sure I’m quite feeling brave enough for that just yet. My nerves are still jangling from the… unpleasantness downstairs. I concentrate on just sipping my coffee, on taking slow and even breaths, and I feel the tension start to leave me.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine. So, Farah was a little insensitive. Film at eleven. It’s not like she and Daenerys are likely to be hanging out or anything.

(Film at eleven. Where does that saying even come from anyway? I think it’s an American thing. I seem to remember coming across it in some old sci fi film once. ‘Flight of the…’ Something. Astrogator? No, ‘Flight of the Navigator’. That was it. I remember! Rob made me watch it when I was little.)

“Is that your costume for tonight?” Daenerys asks, startling me out of my wool-gathering.

“Yes.” I glance over at the material spread out over my bed, finding a small, no doubt pleased smile curve my lips. Well, why not? I *am* pleased with it. I worked hard on that outfit. “It’s almost finished,” I say, wondering if Daenerys can hear the pride in my voice; wondering if she thinks it’s justified or if she thinks I have way too high an opinion of my work. (“You can’t do anything right, can you? God, how did I end up with such a useless lump for a girlfriend?”) All of a sudden, doubt clogs my throat like cobwebs. Or like poison ivy, thick and toxic, strangling my voice until it’s nothing more than a choked stutter. “I’m, um, I just want to put a few ah, finishing touches to it before tonight. I think… I think it’ll be ready in time. I hope, so anyway.”

(“Just shut the fuck up, Sansa.”)

Shut up, Sansa! Stop rambling. She’s going to think I’m an idiot.

“It’s really impressive,” Daenerys says, and I’m so busy spiralling that it takes me a moment to register the words, spoken in tones of clear admiration. “The detail in the embroidery is amazing. You must have been working on it all week!”

I shrug self-consciously, but a warm feeling pools in my chest at the praise. I mean, she’s probably just being polite, but it’s still nice of her to say it. And she noticed the embroidery!

“I haven’t spent that long on it, really. Just a little bit here and there.”

“Now I’m even more impressed,” she says, smiling. “I don’t think I could manage anything so fine if I took a whole month, never mind a week. Just between you and me, needlework is *not* my strongest skill.”

It seems a little strange to think of Daenerys *not* being good at something. She just seems like the kind of person who would be able to effortlessly pick up anything she turns her hand to.

That’s confidence for you, I suppose.

“My mother taught me,” I say. “She tried to teach my sister too, but Arya wasn’t having any of it.” I grin a little, remembering the massive strop she pulled over being ‘forced’ do something so ‘utterly and completely pointless.’ My darling sister has never been shy about making her feelings known. “I really enjoy it, though.”

Fragments of memories flutter across the surface of my mind. Laughing with my mother, feeling a warm rush of pride as she praises my work. “I used to do it all the time, but I guess I got out of the habit.” I remember feeling close to Mum in a way I haven’t really ever since… since… Well. (I bury those dark thoughts under these memories of happier times.)

“I was a bit rusty at first,” I continue. “But it seems to be coming back to me.”

“Apparently so,” Daenerys says cheerfully. “I look forward to seeing you model the finished product.” I blush, naturally, but before I can say anything in response (and, anyway, what would I say?), a concerned expression passes over her face. “I’m sorry if I’m keeping you from working on it,” she adds. “Please do continue. I promise won’t be offended.”

“Um, I might do that, thanks. When I’ve finished my coffee.”

This would be the perfect opportunity to ask her what she wanted to talk about, but as I’m gathering my courage to say the words, she asks me a question.

“So, you have a brother and a sister?”

I nod, thrown a little by the change of subject. “Actually, I have four brothers. Well,” I amend. “Three full brothers and a half-brother.” It suddenly occurs to me that this is the first time we’ve ever talked about families. She didn’t ask, and so neither did I. Well, I guess we’re rectifying that now. “How about yourself? Any siblings?”

It’s like a mask drops over her face, shrouding her expression with blank neutrality. “One brother.” Her voice is just as expressionless as her face. “He’s older.” Okaaay. I guess there’s a reason why this subject hasn’t come up before now. “Anyway,” she says, and I don’t need any particular perspicacity to be able to work out that she’s done with this topic. “Thank you for letting me impose on you like this.”

“It’s not an imposition,” I hasten to reassure her. “You’re welcome to come around any time.”

“Thank you,” she says softly, taking a deep drink of her coffee before continuing. “I just wanted — needed — to talk, I guess.”

I’ve never seen her this hesitant before. It seems alien and wrong and not at all like the Daenerys I know.

I don’t like it.

“What is it?” I try to make my tone soothing, to sound encouraging without being demanding.

She takes a deep breath. “I broke up with Doreah last night.”

“Oh.” And suddenly, it all becomes clear. “I’m so sorry to hear that. Are you okay?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Mostly? It went pretty badly, actually. I was hoping we could still be friends, but after that… I’m not sure we’re even going to talk to each other again.”

She looks so lost all of a sudden that it makes my heart catch in my throat.

“Do you-“ want to tell me what happened, is what I want to say, but she interrupts before I can finish my sentence.

“Do you think I use people?” The words tumble out of her all in a rush, anxious and sad and uncertain and-

“No, of course not!” My voice is louder than I intend, startling me. Startling the both of us, judging from the wide-eyed expression she turns on me. “Of course not,” I repeat, in a gentler tone. “You don’t use people, you help them.”

“She’s not the first one to say that to me.” Daenerys sounds miserable. “Or to call me selfish, or self-absorbed. Or to tell me I care more about my ‘causes’ than about them.”

Before I really have time to think about it, I’m setting my cup aside and striding across the room to place my hand on Daenerys’ shoulder, looking deep into her wide, startled eyes.

(Even now, like this, I can’t get over how blue they are.)

(How beautiful she is.)

(It almost takes my breath away.)

“People can say hurtful things when they’re angry,” I tell her earnestly. “But you are kind, considerate and compassionate. You’ve been nothing but nice to me, and I don’t think that’s because of some cause. You’re a good person, Daenerys, and don’t let anyone tell you different.”

She stares at me.

We stare at each other.

I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe I *sound* like this; so… so… sure of myself, so confident.

(The way the light catches her hair, just so, makes it gleam like spun gold against her tanned skin.)

From the look in her eyes (so wide and deep; I could drown in those eyes), she can’t believe it either. Her lips (so full and soft) are parted slightly as she stares at me, head tilted up so she can meet my eyes.

I think I might be trembling.

(I think I’m trembling.)

“I-“ she breathes softly, but she doesn’t say anything else, just *staring* at me with those blue, blue eyes.

A few strands of hair have fallen across her face, and I have a sudden, mad, utterly inexplicable urge to brush them away.

(And then…)

But suddenly Daenerys leaps to her feet in an explosive motion, startling me so much that I trip over my own feet trying to back away and give her room to stand. She grabs my arm with the hand not holding her coffee — and even in this discombobulated state, I marvel at the grace and control she must have not to spill so much as a drop on either of us — and stops me from falling flat on my behind.

For some reason, both of us are breathing heavily.

It must be the adrenaline of the almost-fall.

That’s the obvious answer.

“Sorry!” I say. Or squeak, more like. “Um, thanks. For steadying me.” I take a deep breath, trying to cool my flaming cheeks through sheer force of will. “I’ll, um, I’ll just get out of your way now.”

Daenerys looks at her hand on my arm as if surprised to find it there. She drops my arm like she was holding something hot; like she’s just got burned.

We do an awkward sort-of dance as we shuffle around each other, getting in each other’s way (well, I get in her way), but I make it back to my chair without further incident. Daenerys remains standing, downing the dregs of her coffee in one convulsive swallow and setting her cup back down on the tray before pacing restlessly back and forth.

She glances over at me a couple of times, but doesn’t meet my eyes.

I wonder what I’ve done wrong.

(This time.)

I wonder how I can fix it.

(If it can be fixed. If I haven’t driven away another friend. If-)

“I’m sorry, Sansa.”

I just blink stupidly for a moment, utterly nonplussed to hear those particular words coming from her.

“Excuse me?” I say, because I have to say *something*, and maybe I just misheard what she said, because she was practically muttering the words which is also so completely and utterly Not. Like. Her. That I don’t know what to think.

“For being so… so… so all over the place today. I’m really not at my best right now, in case you couldn’t tell.”

“Well, you did just go through a break-up,” I say slowly, watching her closely for any hint of whether that’s completely the wrong thing to say.

“I know,” she says, sounding a little more like herself. “But I was the one who initiated it. I suppose I thought it that would make it easier, somehow.” She stops pacing and sighs softly. “I wasn’t expecting it to affect me as much as it has.”

“Why wouldn’t it? A relationship is an emotional investment. When that comes to an end, no matter who breaks up with whom, it’s only natural to for you to be affected by it. You wouldn’t be human if you weren’t.”

Her lips twist in a wry smile, and she actually does meet my eyes then.

“Well, I *have* been called inhuman before,” she says sardonically. She shakes her head; a clearing motion, I think, not a gesture of negation. “But you’re right, I know. And I know it’s going to get easier.”

“It will,” I confirm, smiling up at her.

She gives me a… searching look? I don’t know. I can’t quite figure it out. I’m still trying when she clears her throat and turns her smile all the way up to scintillating.

“I should do something. To thank you,” she says abruptly, crossing the room and taking one of my hands in hers. I’m so shocked that I just let her draw me to my feet.

“Um, that isn’t necessary,” I say, blushing furiously.

“Nonsense! I feel so much better now, and it’s all thanks to you. I want to show you how much I appreciate it.” Her eyes glint (wickedly?) mischievously, leaving me helpless to interrupt as she continues, her voice low and silken-smooth. “And I believe I know just the thing…”

 

* * * * *

 

“I’ll go really slowly,” Daenerys says, her voice low and reassuring. “If it gets too much, just tell me and I’ll stop, okay?”

“O- okay,” I mutter, the butterflies in my stomach doing a loop-the-loop. I can’t believe I’m doing this. I can’t believe *we’re* doing this. Everything just seems to be moving so fast.

I try to settle myself comfortably.

“You need to move a little closer than that.” I tentatively do as she says. “Closer still.” I move another infinitesimal amount towards her and she laughs lightly. “Come on, Sansa. I won’t bite.”

“Sorry,” I almost-whisper, taking my courage in my hand and sliding all the way forward until I’m pressing right up against her.

I’m sure my face must be practically incandescent with the awkwardness of it all.

“Good. Now, hang on tight.”

It feels like my mind whites out briefly, just overloads and shuts right down. When it boots up again, I have to swallow before I can speak.

“Um, to what?” I wish I didn’t sound so timid. This is supposed to be me being brave; confronting one of my fears head on. Carpe diem and all that.

But I think it would be easier to seize the day if I wasn’t practically trembling like a leaf in the wind.

“To me, of course.” It’s to Daenerys’ credit that she doesn’t sigh in frustration or let even the tiniest smidge of impatience into her voice. I’m sure my own voice would crack and wobble, so I don’t even try to speak. I just gingerly reach out and wrap my arms loosely around her waist. “Tighter than that,” she says gently. “You’re not going to hurt me. And, trust me, you really don’t want to fall off.”

I do as she tells me.

(She doesn’t seem to be wearing perfume, but I can smell what I think is her shampoo; a spicy and exotic scent. It suits her.)

“Is this okay?” I practically squeak.

“That’s good. Now, are you ready? Or have you changed your mind? It’s alright if you have, I won’t be offended. I know this isn’t for everybody.”

For a moment, the temptation to tell her ‘yes, I’ve changed my mind’ is almost overwhelming. But hard on the heels of that impulse comes a flare of determination, almost need.

I want to be brave.

I don’t want to be a timid little mouse any more.

I feel like made so much progress in the past few weeks, and if I back down from this it’ll be like going backwards.

I can do this. I *want* to do this.

So I take my courage in both hands and try to sound like a girl who knows what she wants and doesn’t second-guess herself.

“I haven’t changed my mind.” I take a deep breath. “And I think I’m about as ready as I’m going to be.”

“Good.” I can hear the smile in her voice, picturing it so clearly in my mind’s eye that it’s like I can see it. “Just remember what I said: you might feel the urge to tense up, but try to resist it. It’s easier if you relax a little, especially as we go into the turns. Just don’t relax too much, or you might fall off!”

Was that a joke? I really hope that was a joke.

I really, *really* hope that was a joke.

“Now, there isn’t any traffic about, and I’m not trying to set any land speed records, so this is just going to be a nice, gentle ride, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Visor down, then. We’re not going to go very fast, but the wind can still make your eyes tear up. Wind-scoured eyeballs are never pleasant, and I’d really like the memory of your first time to be a happy one.”

“Right,” I say, stupidly. “Um, thanks.” That isn’t much better.

I slide the piece of plastic down into place and feel a brief twinge of claustrophobia. It’s like my head is enclosed in a bubble. But that minor discomfort passes quickly, utterly subsumed into a mixture of confused terror.

I’m going on a motorbike.

I actually agreed to let Daenerys take me out for a spin.

Why did I do that again?

“Ready?” she asks again.

I make some sort of affirmative noise. It must be enough, because the bike suddenly starts up, almost making me leap right off it. I manage to stay on, reassuring myself that my grip on Daenerys is secure.

(Luckily, I’m too busy being terrified to feel self-conscious about the fact that I’m basically embracing her.)

(Mostly.)

I swallow hard and take a deep breath.

“It’s loud,” I say, striving for nonchalance. I don’t even come close.

“That’s part of the fun!” she calls back. “Last chance to change your mind, Sansa.”

“No, I’m fine. I- I want to do this.”

“Right then.” She sounds pleased. And more than that, a note of something almost manic threading through her voice; a kind of wild excitement I’ve never heard from her before. “Off we go!”


	12. Chapter 12

When we pull up outside my house again, my hands feel like they’re welded to Daenerys’ waist. It takes me a couple of tries to peel myself away from her, and then I have to sit for a breath or two before I can muster the energy and the will to swing my leg over the seat and even think about standing up.

When I do finally manage to stand, I feel as wobbly as a new-born foal. It’s almost a shock to find the ground solid and unmoving beneath my feet, rather than racing past at breakneck speeds.

I resist the urge to kneel down and give thanks.

I start to fumble awkwardly with my helmet, but Daenerys takes pity on me.

“Here, let me,” she murmurs, and my head is freed before I can even reply.

“Thank you,” I say, watching with curiosity as she stows the helmet away in a compartment that doesn’t look nearly large enough for it.

Clearly, dark magics and non-euclidean geometries must be involved.

(I can’t help wondering why she even has a spare helmet. Does she take all her friends out on her bike?)

(Did she take Doreah?)

“So, what did you think?”

She seems almost anxious; like my opinion of the bike really matters to her. Faced with that pressure, I hesitate.

(There is a part of me — the part that’s so pathetically eager to please and to not rock the boat in any way — that just wants to blurt out that it was great. Simple, straightforward and at least partly true. But it wouldn’t be… It wouldn’t be *fair*. And so I resist the urge to take the easy route, forcing myself to actually think about my answer.)

“It was…” Terrifying? Exhilarating? Different to anything I’ve ever experienced in my whole life?

“You don’t have to be polite,” Daenerys jumps in, as my hesitation becomes a full-fledged pause. “If you didn’t like it, you can say so. I won’t be offended.” She smiles at me, and out of nowhere I get the feeling that she’s not quite telling me the whole truth.

Offended; no, maybe not. But disappointed? A little sad? Neither of those would surprise me at all. It’s clear that she loves riding that bike of hers and I think that maybe, perhaps, for some reason known only to her, she’s hoping that I love it too.

“It’s not that,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I just don’t have the right words. I mean, it was more than a little scary, especially on the corners.” I see the light in her eyes start to dim, and hurriedly continue. “But at the same time, it was… exciting. Liberating, even.” I take a deep breath. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt so free.”

The truth of my words surprises me a little. I mean, I had been *beyond* terrified; heart in my mouth, unable to catch my breath, the whole nine yards. But at the same time, I was hyper-aware of Daenerys; almost as close to me as my own skin, her every movement transmitted to me through the contact. 

And I knew, beyond all shadow of a doubt, that I was safe in her hands.

“So,” I continue, still figuring out what I’m going to say. “On balance, I think I’d have to say I… liked it?”

Huh. How about that? Sansa Scaredy-Cat enjoyed being on a motorbike.

Arya is going to laugh herself sick when I tell her.

“I’m glad,” Daenerys says softly, and her smile seems to light up the whole world.

 

* * * * *

 

The memory of that smile stays with me long after Daenerys heads off home, warming me through even as I concentrate on putting the finishing touches to my costume. It’s only as I’m walking the short distance to the university campus that the light, happy feeling starts to fade. In its place comes a wave of nervous anticipation.

I hope people like my costume.

(I hope Daenerys isn’t disappointed in the finished product.)

It’s only when I’m almost at the Portland building that I realise I was so busy being nervous that I forgot to be self-conscious about walking through the streets in my costume.

I’m not sure whether to find that funny or sad.

I take a deep breath and push open the door to the foyer. I’m early, but quite a few people are here already, chatting and generally milling around.

I can’t help but notice that I’m not the only one with a new outfit.

Daenerys doesn’t seem to be here yet. Neither does Missandei. I think about trying to join one of the groups engaged in animated conversation, but my courage deserts me all of a sudden and I end up standing awkwardly against the wall

This is ridiculous. It’s not like these people are complete strangers. I should just go up and say hello to someone. It’s not that hard.

It *shouldn’t* be that hard.

Or, maybe I’ll just wait until Daenerys gets here.

“Wow, Sansa.” Daario’s voice cuts across the chatter, silencing it. Heads turn towards me, curious gazes pinning me to the wall like a butterfly in a glass case. Daario looks me up and down as he sashays towards me, a smile spreading across his face. “Did you make that yourself?” My throat is too choked-up for words, so I just nod. “Impressive,” he breathes.

I blush hard enough that my cheeks probably resemble the apples that Asha wanted to name me for.

“Thank you,” I squeak uncertainly, not entirely sure if he’s just talking about my outfit or…

Other people are coming across now, looking me over and making complimentary noises about my costume.

I think they seem to like it.

I mean, they’re probably just being…

No, actually.

I think… I think they really do like it.

Well, I guess I am pretty pleased with how it turned out. Maybe my needlework skills aren’t quite as rusty as I feared they were.

“Thanks guys,” I manage to say, smiling.

Pleasure at their praise is just about outweighing the uneasy fluttering in my gut that comes with being the centre of attention, but I’m still relieved when the crowd starts to break up again, people returning to whatever they were talking about before Daario drew their attention to me.

Daario himself lingers, smiling at me in a way that makes me wonder how much of Alessandro is just his own personality showing through the role. I give him an uncertain smile.

“So, how has your week been?” he asks.

“Pretty good, thank you. Nothing too exciting, though — I spent most of my time either doing uni stuff, working, or embroidering.” Actually, that’s not strictly true. The motorbike ride with Daenerys was pretty exciting, but for some reason I find myself reluctant to talk about it with him. “How about yourself?”

“Much the same as you, actually,” he says, leaning against the wall next to me. “Even down to the embroidery, although that was mostly just repair-work.” His gaze flicks over me again. “Certainly nothing as demanding and intricate as yours.”

(Would it be rude to move away? He’s not really crowding me or anything, not really, but I still feel a little…)

(No, it would probably be rude.)

“You have a part-time job?” I ask. “What do you do?”

“Stack shelves, wait tables and tutor.” He shrugs and flashes me a lopsided grin, his teeth flashing white against his skin. “What can I say? I like to keep busy.”

“How do you still have time for studying?” I ask, and then hope the question doesn’t sound too judgemental. I’m honestly curious, though. Sometimes I find it a bit of a struggle even just having one part-time job. (Although, if I’m completely honest with myself, that’s mainly been since I actually started having a social life.)

“I have excellent time-management skills,” Daario replies, and then he leans in close, as if to whisper secrets in my ear.

(Wait. Is he going to ask me out?)

(I mean, it’s probably arrogant to just assume that, but I *think* he’s been flirting with me, and I guess he does flirt with everyone, but the way he’s looking at me right now is just…)

(First Reza, now Daario. Is there something in the water around here or something?)

(My heartbeat pounds like thunder, my thoughts skittering uselessly as I try to work out what I should do if this is really what I think it is. Now I do want to move away — rudeness be damned — but I can’t seem to make my limbs work the way I want them to. So I just stay where I am, frozen like a deer in headlights.)

“So, Sansa,” Daario says. “I was wondering if-“

“Hi Sansa.”

“Hi,” I squeak back, gladder than I ever thought I could be to hear Jorah’s voice.

Irritation shows briefly on Daario’s face before being vanishing so completely that I almost wonder if I imagined the expression. When he turns to look at Jorah, he’s smirking.

“Hello Jorah,” he drawls. “A pleasure as always.”

Jorah frowns. “Daario,” he says, his voice clipped and brusque. I wonder if I can sidle away while the two of them engage in their customary verbal sparring, but Jorah turns his attention back to me. “Sansa,” he says, and the way he says my name makes me half-wonder if I should stand to attention. “I was wondering if-“

Not him, too!

That’s my first, instinctive thought. Which is, of course, ridiculous and arrogant and means I probably have way too high an opinion of my own attractiveness, but it’s just that the words are so similar to Daario’s and I’m *pretty* sure I can guess what he was going to say before Jorah interrupted him.

And now, it seems, Daario is returning the favour by interrupting Jorah in turn.

“But, if you don’t mind, the lady and I were speaking.” Daario pointedly turns his attention back to me, clearly dismissing Jorah, who glares daggers in his direction.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Jorah says, not sounding sorry at all. “But I just wanted to ask: Sansa, have you seen Daenerys at all?”

Oh, thank *god*.

That makes much more sense.

“Um, no. Sorry. I don’t think she’s here yet.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

And with that, it’s like I don’t even exist to him anymore.

It’s actually something of a relief.

He heads off without another word, disappearing around the corner into the corridor. Daario pulls a face at his back, the sheer childishness of the action startling a (rather high-pitched) laugh (giggle) out of me.

He shrugs, giving me a lopsided grin.

“He brings out the worst in me, I’m afraid. Always so *serious*, so *important*. So *boring*.” He shakes his head. “Just between you and me, I think he’s just sore over the fact that Daenerys likes me more than she likes him.”

Fortunately, I’m saved from having to come up with a response when the woman herself arrives.

Her ears must have been burning hotter than my cheeks.

She glances around the foyer, smiling when she catches my eye. I smile back, helpless — as always — to do anything else as she makes her way towards me and Daario.

“I see you finished your robes,” she says, once we’ve all exchanged greetings.

“Yes.” I move away from the wall, twirling so she can get a proper look at my outfit. “What do you think?”

My nervousness swells again in my stomach, but then subsides again when I register the approval in her eyes.

“That’s amazing, Sansa. And it looks great on you. Wow…”

I look at her, looking at me, and neither of us seems to have any words right now. Me, because I’m just so happy that Daenerys, my friend, thinks all my hard work paid off. Her, because… because…

Well, actually, I don’t know why she should be lost for words. Maybe she’s just examining the detail work or something.

Daario stirs.

“I think, after today, you will find yourself in great demand at the next costume workshop,” he observes.

Daenerys blinks, pulled from the depths of her thoughts. She starts to say something — agreeing with Daario, I think — but breaks off at the sound of someone calling her name.

It’s Jorah, of course.

“I was wondering where you’d got to,” he says, striding purposefully towards us. Well, towards Daenerys. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

“I think the GMs are about to call time-in,” she says, nodding towards where their little pre-game huddle seems to finally have broken up. “Maybe afterwards?” Without waiting for his reply, she turns and, much to my surprise, takes me by the arm. “Come on, Sansa, let’s go and get into character.”

“Um, okay.” I let her pull me away.

It’s only as the game’s about to start that I realise Daario never did finish saying exactly what it was he was wondering. Oh well. I guess I was just worrying (freaking out) over nothing.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

I doubt it’ll be the last.

 

* * * * *

 

“And time out!”

What had been a group of battle-hardened adventurers facing off against an undead horde dissolves into a disorganised rabble. The noise level rockets from dead silence — no pun intended — to deafening in less than a second as everyone seemingly starts talking at once.

I have to take a few deep breaths to calm my racing heart, to remind myself that I’m not *actually* a high mage readying herself for lethal combat.

That I’m Sansa Stark, shy first year student, not Alanna Stone, magical prodigy and kick-arse adventuress.

I almost wish I didn’t have to put Alanna aside.

“Well, that was intense,” Daenerys murmurs, panting a little from her mad dash around the lake to warn the rest of us about the ambush.

“Definitely,” I agree, nodding my head vigorously. “I still can’t believe you managed to get ahead of those wraiths.”

She shrugs. “Luckily, I only had to outrun the people playing them. And I’m in pretty good shape.”

“I know,” I say without thinking, then cringe with embarrassment. “Um, I mean, you seem pretty athletic and, um, stuff…”

I think I’m just going to stop talking and wish really hard for the ground to open up and swallow me whole. Pretty please with sugar on top?

Daenerys, gracious as ever, simply says: “Thank you.”

Luckily, Missandei comes over, (hopefully) heading off any further examples of foot-in-mouth syndrome on my part.

“So, we’re fighting zombies now,” she murmurs, sounding amused.

“Ice-wraiths,” Daenerys corrects her.

“Zombies.” Missandei sounds unimpressed. “I knew nothing good would come of lending Karen my Walking Dead DVDs.”

“So this is your fault?” Daenerys says, laughing.

Missandei raises an eyebrow. “And who was it who insisted we had to go poking around in that tomb?”

“It seemed like our best shot of finding the information we need, but I take your point.”

We chat about tonight’s game events for a few minutes.

“We’re going to have to come up with some kind of strategy for next time,” Daenerys says, sighing. “I don’t like our odds if we just charge in there willy-nilly.”

“Are we allowed to do that?” I ask. “I mean, next week we’re picking up from where we left off. Our characters won’t exactly have time to confer.”

“Our characters are also much more experienced in combat and strategy than we are,” says Missandei. “It all balances out.”

“Oh, okay.” I guess that makes sense.

I spot Jorah heading towards us.

“Daenerys, can I speak with you for a moment?” he says when he draws near.

“Sure,” Daenerys replies, raising her eyebrows enquiringly. “What’s up?” Her eyebrows climb higher when, instead of simply saying what he wants to say, he moves a short distance up the path, but she follows him without comment.

I wonder what he wants.

“Sansa, you work at Hot Coffee, don’t you?” Missandei’s question catches me by surprise. I try to shift mental gears without too much grinding.

“Um, yes?”

I totally wasn’t trying to eavesdrop on Daenerys’ conversation with Jorah or anything.

Honest.

“Do you know if they’re hiring right now?”

If I was straining my ears a little, I might hear Jorah say “-sorry to hear about-“

“Yes, actually. We’re having a little trouble covering all the shifts at the moment. Especially the morning ones. I guess that’s the trouble with mainly employing students.” I study Missandei thoughtfully. “Why, are you looking for a job?”

“Yes. I was hoping it wouldn’t be necessary, but I need the extra money.”

“-anything I can do-“ Jorah is saying.

“I know that feeling,” I say fervently. “Well, I can bring you an application form at the next Radford Lights meeting. Or you can just pop in and collect one anytime.”

“Thank you,” I hear Daenerys say, “but-“

“Thanks,” Missandei says, giving me one of her rare smiles. “I’m going to be in the area on Monday, so I might stop by then.”

“Okay.”

I can just about hear the low rumble of Jorah’s voice, but I can’t make out any words.

Not that I’m trying to listen or anything.

“So, what’s it like to work there?”

“Um…” Okay, I need to focus on what Missandei is saying, rather than on certain other people’s private conversation. “It’s pretty good, actually. Scheduling is pretty flexible, and the pay’s not bad compared to similar places. The other baristas are really nice, and they were all very patient with me when I was learning the ropes.” Well, except Asha, but she is nice in her own, unique way.

“What’s the manager like?”

“Mr Baelish? Um, he’s okay, but we don’t actually have that much to do with him. He leaves most of the day-to-day stuff to Asha, the assistant manager.”

“Asha Greyjoy?” There’s a slightly wary look in Missandei’s eyes. “I’ve heard of her, I think.”

“She can be a little…” What’s the word? “Brusque sometimes, but she’s alright. I get on well with her, I think.” About as well as she seems to get on with anyone, anyway. “And she always sticks up for us. Like with rowdy customers or silly management directives.”

Missandei arches an eyebrow slightly. “Are there many of those?”

“No, not really. But on the rare occasions that there are, Asha’s always got our backs.”

I get the feeling that Missandei hasn’t exactly heard good things about Asha, so I find myself compelled to defend her. Bad breakup with Daenerys notwithstanding (and it still seems weird to me that the two of them were ever together at all), she really isn’t that bad. A little rough around the edges maybe, but she does care.

Missandei makes a noncommittal sound. “Well, I suppose I will find out if I get the job.”

That’s the point at which Daenerys re-joins us. I look around for Jorah, but he seems to have been waylaid by one of the GMs.

“Did you ask her?” Daenerys asks Missandei, sounding interested.

“I did. Hot Coffee is, in fact, hiring, and I’m going to apply.” Missandei inclines her head a little in Jorah’s direction. “What was that about?”

“Oh, nothing much.” Daenerys shrugs. “He just wanted to express his sympathy for the break-up, that’s all. I guess that’s why he took me to one side. I think he was surprised that I wasn’t more upset.” She frowns slightly. “Actually, I think he was almost *disappointed* that I wasn’t, although I can’t imagine why.”

“Why indeed,” Missandei murmurs, her voice heavy with irony.

Daenerys shoots her a puzzled look. “Do you know something?”

“Don’t you?”

I’m completely lost by this, and judging from the way Daenerys rolls her eyes heavenward, she’s also none the wiser.

“And you’re in sphinx-mode. Great. Well, tell me or not, as you wish. I am not going to worry about it. On a completely different note, though, unless you have any objections, I’m going to offer to host the post-LARP gathering at our place. Is that okay?” She laughs suddenly, bitterly. “At least Doreah won’t be distracting me from the cleaning up this time.”

Oh, Daenerys…

If Jorah doesn’t think she’s upset, he obviously doesn’t know her very well at all. I mean, she’s not bawling her eyes out or anything, but there’s a brittleness to her, a hesitation where there’s usually nothing but smooth self-confidence.

“It’s fine,” is all Missandei says in reply. She completely ignores the last part, so I follow her lead and do the same.

Even though I really want to say *something* to let Daenerys know she can always come to me if she needs to talk or anything.

Before any inspiration strikes me, Daenerys is already broaching the venue to the rest of the lingering LARPers, who seem to be broadly in favour. But as we set off for the wilds of Beeston, I make sure that I’m walking beside her; showing her in the only way I can right now that I’m there for her if she needs me.

For the moment, that’s all I can do.

 

* * * * *

 

I’m not entirely sure how I’ve ended up being the only one left. Well, the only one who doesn’t live here, anyway. It seems like one moment there were a bunch of us, and the next it was just me.

I guess there was a period in between where people were taking their leave, but I was too wrapped up in my conversation with Daenerys to really pay attention. I vaguely remember Jorah lingering a little, looking like he wanted to say something — or like he was maybe waiting for something more than Daenerys’ cheerful but slightly distracted goodbye — but then Stan dragged him off.

I guess the two of them must have been the tail-end of the exodus.

“I recommend the Kushiel series, by Jacqueline Carey,” Daenerys is saying enthusiastically. “I know you said you prefer modern day fantasy, but I think you’ll like this.”

I can’t help smiling as she goes on to tell me why she loves the series, her eyes sparkling like sapphires and her hands dancing like birds. Passion is a good look on her. I mean, she’s beautiful anyway, but when illuminated by enthusiasm like this, it’s enough to take my breath away.

I know I should probably be thinking about heading home myself, but I just can’t bring myself to interrupt her.

Anyway, it’s not really *that* late. Not really.

“I’ll give it a try,” I promise, when she finishes extolling the books’ many virtues.

“Great! I’ll go and dig up my copies. Wait a moment.”

She’s gone before I can tell her that she doesn’t have to do it right this second.

“She really likes those books,” Missandei says, her tone droll.

“I realised that,” I say, smiling. I glance around the room, noting the discarded food containers and other detritus scattered on every available surface. Including the floor. “Do you want…? Should we make a start on the clearing up?”

Missandei smiles. “And this is why you are always a welcome guest here, Sansa. Yes, please. I would appreciate the help.”

Daenerys comes back downstairs as we’re making the rounds with a bin bag.

“You’re tidying now?” she says, sounding surprised.

“It means we won’t have to face it in the morning,” Missandei replies. “And Sansa offered to help.”

“You don’t have to do that, Sansa,” Daenerys says. She sets the books down on the sofa and comes to join us.

“I want to help,” I say. “It doesn’t seem fair to leave it all to you two.”

“Well, thank you.”

The three of us make short work of the clean-up, and the living room is soon returned to its normal level of clutter.

“I’m going to bed,” Missandei announces, when we’re done. “Good night, ladies.”

We bid her goodnight and she disappears off upstairs, leaving just the two of us. We look at each other as the silence fills the room.

It feels oddly tense. Not comfortable and easy as it usually does, but fully and heavy with…

(Possibilities.)

I don’t know.

I should probably leave. Daenerys probably also wants to go to bed.

“Here are those books,” she says suddenly, scooping them up and holding them out to me.

“Um, thanks.” I stow them carefully in my bag; old-fashioned leather satchel.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” Daenerys says. “Where did you find that?”

“I got it in a charity shop. It was pretty cheap, too.” Thankfully. “I guess people don’t really use these any more, but it seemed perfect for Alanna.”

“Yes,” she agrees. “It’s just the thing for a modern high mage to take on her adventures.”

“I needed *something* to put my stuff in, and my backpack doesn’t exactly go with my costume.”

“I suppose not.”

Silence falls again. I clear my throat.

“I should probably-“

“I was wondering-“ Daenerys says, at the same time.

We both break off and laugh, which seems to ease this inexplicable tension somewhat.

“Go ahead,” I tell her.

“I was going to impose on you terribly by asking if you could stay for a while and help me with something, but if you have to head off…”

“What is it?”

She sighs.

“You’re probably going think this is silly. And it is, really, but… Would you help me dye my hair?”

For a moment, I wonder if I might have misheard.

“Dye your hair? Now?”

The words don’t seem to make any more sense when I say them. I mean, they make sense and all, but why would she ask me?

“One of the things Doreah said during our fight was that, well…” She shrugs. “She said this was the worst dye job she’d ever seen. She said I obviously don’t have the first clue how to do it right, or how often to do it, and so on, and so forth. And I know I don’t do the greatest job with it, but I’ve never really cared that much before. Except now, for some stupid reason, it’s bothering me. And it’s something I *can* fix, with help. So…” She takes a breath; possibly her first one since she started that little speech. “Will you help me?”

“Of course.” I don’t even need to think about my answer. She’s my friend, and helping each other is what friends do.

I deliberately don’t check my watch. I don’t need *that* much sleep. Anyway, I can have a lie-in tomorrow.

“You will? Great! Thanks so much, Sansa. I really appreciate this.”

“You’re welcome. You might want to hold the thanks until you see the finished result, though. I’ve never dyed anyone’s hair before, not even my own. ”

I *really* hope I don’t mess this up.

(“You always fuck everything up! Can’t you do anything right?”)

She laughs. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. You can’t do any worse than this!” She waves her hand towards her head, and then her expression sobers slightly. “I have confidence in you, Sansa. You’re not going to mess this up.”

(“You *always*-”)

(No.)

(No I *don’t*. Not everything. Not anymore.)

(I didn’t mess up my costume, did I? Everyone who’s seen it has liked it. They said they did! And people wouldn’t have asked me to help them with theirs if they thought I’d made a mess of mine. Would they?)

(Would they?)

(So I *can* do something right.)

(And I can do this.)

I can do this.

Daenerys has confidence in me.

Maybe it’s time I did the same?

 

* * * * *

 

“Okay, done.” I carefully set the spatula down on the designated sacrificial rag and strip off my gloves, making sure I don’t drip any of the bleach on me. “Now we just have to wait.”

“This is the part I often have trouble with,” Daenerys confides. “Fifteen minutes doesn’t *sound* that long, but it feels like forever when I’ve got this gunk on my hair.” She smiles at me. “At least I have you to keep me company this time.”

I nod, trying not to look at her while trying not to make it look like I’m trying not to look at her.

I probably just end up looking like I’ve got some kind of tic.

It’s just that…

When she said she was going to change into something suitable for bleaching her hair, I was expecting, I don’t know, leggings and a T-shirt. Maybe a pair of tracksuit bottoms or something. But when she came out of her bedroom, she was wearing a vest-top and a tiny little pair of shorts. She’s practically in her underwear!

I just don’t know where to look.

(All that tanned, toned skin…)

My cheeks haven’t stopped burning since she opened her door.

(She really *is* in good shape.)

This is ridiculous. Why am I so embarrassed? It’s not like she’s *naked*.

(Although she might as well be. Even where she’s covered, her clothes cling so tightly…)

And it’s not like she’s a *guy*.

(She’s *really* not a guy.)

It’s just like the changing rooms at school. It’s nothing I should be embarrassed about.

(Staring at the ground with my cheeks aflame as I change beneath my towel, uncomfortably aware of the girls around me, trying not to catch sight of anything I shouldn’t.)

(My eyes darting upwards of their own volition, curiosity warring with embarrassment.)

Why am I such a prude?

“Penny for your thoughts?” she asks. I look up at her automatically, then blush and look down again.

“Um, just making sure I haven’t managed to bleach my clothes, that’s all.”

“I could have lent you some shorts,” she says.

“No, that’s okay,” I say, trying to conceal my utter horror at the very thought. “This is an old tracksuit anyway. I just wanted something warm to wear under my robes that I wouldn’t mind getting muddy.”

I’m starting to babble now. I make myself stop. I glance up at her, aiming for casual, but she’s leaning back a little and her vest is riding up and I can see a sliver of bare midriff and…

Oh god. I think my face is about to burst into flame.

I look down again.

I can’t even imagine being comfortable wearing so little.

Just like I can’t imagine being comfortable enough to just start changing in front of someone else. I think I just about had a heart attack when she started to strip off her top like… like she was just taking off a coat.

I ran out of there like my hair was on fire.

She probably thinks I’m a freak.

“I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” she says, like she can see right into my head.

Now *there’s* a nightmare I didn’t need.

“Um,” I say, eloquently. “I’m not… You didn’t…” I force myself to stop and take a breath. “It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not,” she says, her tone gentle but serious. “I should have at least warned you before I started getting changed. I’ve never been particularly body conscious, so it doesn’t always occur to me that other people might be. I should have been more considerate, though. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Really. It just… took me a little by surprise, that’s all.” I attempt a smile, keeping my eyes fixed firmly on her face. “I’m just a prude. I’m sorry I’m so easily embarrassed.”

“Don’t say that.” She reaches out and puts her hand on my arm. “You apologise way too much as it is, and usually about things that aren’t your fault.”

“I-“ The apology is instinctive, reflexive, but I manage to stop myself through sheer force of will, biting the words back before they can emerge fully.

I can tell Daenerys notices, though.

She sighs. “There’s nothing *wrong* with being uncomfortable around nudity. People have different comfort levels, that’s all. It’s not anything you need to apologise for.” She smiles then, but it’s a slightly sad expression, and there’s something in her eyes that I can’t read. “Never apologise for who you are, Sansa.”

“I…” I swallow hard, feeling some strange emotion congeal in my chest, filling it like sand. My eyes prickle in a familiar way that I try to tell myself is due to bleach fumes, even though I know it isn’t. I won’t cry. I *won’t* cry. “I’ll try,” I say, softly.

Why does saying those words feel so much like falling?

“Good,” she says, just as softly.

And her smile becomes positively luminous.


	13. Chapter 13

“You’re good at this,” Missandei says matter-of-factly.

She pays careful attention as I show her the different ways of pouring coffee, soaking the information in like a sponge. I bet she’ll have this mastered by the end of the day.

Not that anyone apart from Daenerys ever states a preference for one technique over another, but more knowledge never hurt anything. Besides, Missandei seems interested.

“It’s not that hard,” I say, trying to sound casual even as I blush at her praise.

Somewhere at the back of my mind, the writer part of my brain is busy trying to weave together a suitable story for Missandei. A seer, maybe? Perhaps a diviner of fate’s weave, drawn to the would-be vampire queen by the tangled skein of her destiny.

Yes, that could work. That has definite possibilities…

“Oh, you’re too modest, Sansa.” Mr Baelish’s voice comes from close behind me, making me start in surprise. I only just manage not to spill hot milk on myself or, more importantly, on Missandei. I set the jug down with possibly excessive care, sliding to one side as I give him a harried smile. He winks at me, his gaze sliding over and down me in that way I’ve come to expect from him. I guess he’s probably just making sure that my uniform is shipshape? Maybe? (That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. Even if I don’t really believe it.) “You’re in good hands with her, Missandei,” he continues, turning his gaze on his newest employee.

(For some reason, my muse wants to write Mr Baelish as a purveyor of unsavoury delights. Perhaps his fictional counterpart could run some sort of brothel catering to the specialised tastes of the supernatural denizens of the night.)

(Maybe.)

(I’m… not sure I feel comfortable with this train of thought.)

“I know.” Missandei’s tone is as neutral as her expression is impassive. I can see why Daenerys sometimes calls her a sphinx. She doesn’t even attempt to smile at him, which I know he’s not going to be happy about. He’s always telling us to smile; says the customers are more likely to come back if they have ‘something nice to look at’.

Personally, I think it’s more important to make good coffee. I mean, most of the customers — the ones we don’t know, at any rate — don’t even look at us. Which, honestly, I’m more than happy about.

“So, how are you finding things so far?” Mr Baelish is asking Missandei. I notice that he checks her uniform, too.

“Fine.”

“She’s doing really well,” I hasten to add, hoping my enthusiasm will make up for her monotone.

“Good.” He bestows (directs) a fond smile (leer) on (at) the pair of us. “Good,” he says again, and sighs heavily. “Well, those accounts won’t balance themselves. No rest for the wicked, I suppose!” He laughs like he’s made a joke, but I don’t really see the humour in it. Still, I smile politely at him anyway, which he seems to appreciate. “I’ll leave you to it, then. Adieu for now, Ladies.”

“Goodbye,” I say. Missandei says nothing. As soon as he’s disappeared into the back, she turns to me and pulls a face.

“He makes my skin crawl,” she confides in a low voice.

(I know what she means.)

“He’s not that bad,” I murmur back. “I think he just feels… protective of us. Like a father.”

She snorts quietly. “Maybe the kind of father that makes you want to call child services.”

I really don’t know what to say to that, so I just change the subject.

“Well, um, it’s probably time for our breaks now. I don’t think anyone will mind if we take them at the same time. And there’s no point letting these coffees get cold.”

“Very well.” Her lips quirk up a little, and I mentally breathe a sigh of relief that she doesn’t seem to be annoyed at me. “You can tell me what Shae meant by your ‘game’.”

“Oh, um.” Oh… heck. I was hoping she’d forgotten about that. I might have known that she wouldn’t. I consider trying to evade, but you know what? I’m just going to tell her. She LARPs, after all. Is she really going to judge me for making up stories about people? I take a deep breath. “It’s quite simple, really…’

 

* * * * *

 

“So you should find it much easier this way. You see?”

I smile encouragingly. Pod looks at me like I’ve just hung the moon. (It’s funny; no one seems to call him by his real name any more. Whatever that actually is. But he doesn’t seem to mind, and Pod suits him surprisingly well.)

“How do you know all this stuff?” he asks, sounding positively awe-struck.

I shrug awkwardly, looking down at my hands so I can avoid his gaze. The naked — and undeserved — admiration in his eyes is making me a little uncomfortable.

“Some of it I learned when I was younger, and the rest of it I’ve just researched. The campus libraries have some pretty good books on this time period and the kinds of techniques they used. And there’s a *lot* of information out there on the internet.” I glance up, wincing mentally when I see that he’s still staring at me. “Then it’s just a case of practicing.”

Thankfully, he finally stops looking at me, instead staring glumly at the material in front of him on the table.

“I’m not sure it’s going to matter how much I practice if I have two left thumbs,” he mutters.

“You don’t have two left thumbs,” I say, encouragingly. He still looks less than convinced, so I give him a winning smile and get up, moving to stand beside him. “Let me guide you through it…”

A little while later, his face is screwed up in concentration as he pulls and pushes the needle through the coarse cloth, carefully following the faint lines I stencilled on there for him in pencil. He actually looks shocked when he successfully reaches the end.

“I did it,” he says, eyes wide as he turns to look at me.

“You did.” I smile broadly at him. “I told you that you could. You just needed a little confidence.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he says, giving me that look again. I shrug self-consciously, brushing a non-existent strand of hair back behind my ear just for the sake of something to do.

“I’m sure you could.”

He starts to say something else — probably another denial — when someone calls my name from across the room.

“Sansa, can you show me how to work this shuttle again?”

“Be right there!” I call back. I pat Pod on the shoulder encouragingly. “You’ll be fine,” I tell him. “Now, if you’ll excuse me…”

The time seems to pass in a blur of activity. Spinning, weaving, sewing, leather-cutting and shaping, stone-polishing, jewellery-making… Anything at all to do with early Norman clothing and accessories. You name it, there’s at least one workstation dedicated to it. Some of the longer-term re-enactors are acting as instructors, giving the rest of us the benefit of their hard-earned knowledge.

Somehow — and I’m still not entirely certain how — I seem to have become some kind of peripatetic assistant, floating between the different workstations and helping people out when they need it.

And people actually seem to be trusting my advice; like they think I actually know what I’m doing.

Which, I guess, I kind of do. Some of it, anyway. The rest of it, I’m just kind of muddling through with my best guesses.

It seems to be going okay so far, but in those rare moments when I can stop and catch my breath, I sometimes find myself feeling like a fraud.

That’s when I start wondering when the other shoe is going to drop.

But most of the time I’m just having fun.

“You’re a natural at this,” Loras says with a smile, as I finish helping someone near him.

“I don’t know about that,” I say, flushing a little. “I just like this kind of thing.”

“No, you really are,” he insists. “Practice can only take you so far — believe me, I know — but you have a real talent for it.”

“Um, thank you,” I practically whisper, completely flustered.

“You’re a good teacher, too,” he continues, apparently not yet finished embarrassing me. “In fact, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to recommend to the committee that you join our roster of official instructors. Heaven knows we always need more.”

He looks at me expectantly, but all I can do is blink at him, completely unable to force words past the lump in my throat.

(“You’re no good at *anything.*”)

(“You’re completely useless.”)

(“You never do anything right.”)

(“They’re only being polite, you know. They don’t really mean it.”)

(No.)

(No, no, no, no, *no*.)

You know what? I *am* good at this. I’ve always been good at arts and crafts and making stuff. I don’t know why I ever stopped doing it.

(Except I do know, don’t I?)

And none of the people today were just being polite when they said I’d helped them. I would have known. It would have been utterly, blindingly obvious.

*Loras* isn’t just being polite. He wouldn’t suggest making me an official instructor if he didn’t think I was up to the task. That wouldn’t be ‘polite,’ that would be cruel.

*He* isn’t cruel.

And he isn’t the only one who thinks well of me and my abilities.

(“I have confidence in you, Sansa.”)

“Sansa?” Loras asks, sounding a little concerned.

Suddenly, I can speak again.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “You just took me a little by surprise. But yes, that’s alright.” Even with my newfound resolution, I can’t help adding: “If you really think I can do it?”

He smiles at me.

“I know you can do it,” he says gently.

“Thank you.” I smile at him, not even caring that my cheeks are likely redder than a red, red rose right now. “I won’t let you down. If the committee agrees to it, of course.”

And I will try to have a little faith in myself.

I *will*.

I can do this.

 

* * * * *

 

“What are you drinking, Stark?” Asha’s voice carries easily through the noise and hubbub of the pub. I bet she never has to worry about not being heard. I think I envy that, a little.

“Just a diet coke, please.”

I cringe inside as soon as I make my request, expecting derision; expecting to be asked justify it. To have to explain myself. To be told that’s not *really* what I want, and wouldn’t I rather have a real drink instead? A thousand and one permutations run through my head, things I should say or should not say in response to all the usual tactics. But, much to my surprise, Asha doesn’t use any of those. All she does is nod her acknowledgement and make her way to the bar.

I don’t know why I’m so surprised. It’s not like anyone in the society has ever been *that* obnoxious about trying to persuade me to have an alcoholic drink, not really. But, more often than not, there’s at least been a token effort; an ‘are you sure?’ or some comment or other.

But Asha just gets me my diet coke without any fuss and bother.

Later, as the evening is starting to wind down a little and people are making noises about heading off home, I find myself next to Asha during a lull in both of our conversations with other people.

“You don’t usually drink alcohol, do you?”

“Um,” I say, intelligently, caught a little off-guard by the question. “No, not really. Just occasionally.”

“Especially when someone talks you into it,” she observes wryly, and I just stare at her, wide-eyed with shock.

Am I really that obvious? God, what must she think of me? I don’t know what’s worse. Would I rather ‘just’ be considered ‘an uptight bitch who needs to loosen up a bit,’ or would I rather people assume I have some kind of moral restriction against drinking, but that I’m willing to abandon it at the slightest hint of peer pressure?

Talk about a devil’s choice.

“Oh, if you could see the look on your face right now,” she says, her lips twitching upwards in the minutest of smiles. Her expression sobers again as she continues. “Look, Stark. I’m not going to judge you for it, and you sure as shit don’t need to tell me your reasons. It’s no one’s damn business but your own. I just wanted to tell you this. If it’s because you’re worried about the company, you needn’t be. This here’s a good bunch of people. No one’s going to take advantage. And there’s a whole bunch of us who’d be willing to beat the ever-living *shit* out of anyone who tried; me included.” She shrugs. “I’m not saying you have to get utterly rat-arsed or anything, but if the only thing holding you back is worry, well, you don’t have to. I’ve got your back. Okay?”

She looks at me expectantly, but I just stare back at her, utterly tongue-tied, unable to make my mouth form words. Heck, I don’t even know *what* to say to that. How can she see me so clearly? I didn’t think she really knew me at all. I guess she’s a better judge of people than I ever gave her credit for.

“Say *something*, Stark. Even if it’s just to tell me to fuck off and mind my own business. I’m a big girl; I can take it.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” I protest, indignation finally helping me to find my voice.

“No, you wouldn’t,” she agrees cheerfully. “You’d be *much* more polite about it. And you sure as sheep-shit wouldn’t swear.”

She chuckles, but not unkindly, and I find myself relaxing enough to smile back at her. I even — much to my great surprise — manage to scrape up the courage to answer the question she deliberately didn’t ask.

I look down at the scarred wooden table as I talk, tracing endless circles in the condensation with my fingertip.

If I don’t look at her, maybe I can pretend I’m talking to myself.

“I don’t like being drunk,” I say, and even though logically I know it doesn’t make sense, the words somehow feel like a confession. “Being out of control, having my judgement and awareness impaired like that… It scares me.”

(Stumbling through the party as the room tilts dizzyingly around me, staring at faces blurred by too many drinks on a mostly-empty stomach. Realisation hitting me like a slap in the face: none of these people are my friends.)

(None of them are *my* friends.)

I make myself look up at Asha as I say: “You’re right. About my reasons.” I attempt a grin, but it feels alien and strange on my face. God only knows what it looks like to other people. “I’m just really bad at saying no sometimes.” Struck by a sudden, almost overwhelming desire for her approval, I can’t stop myself from adding. “But I am getting better at it.”

“That you are,” she agrees. I duck my head a little, hoping uselessly that it will make my blush a little less obvious. There’s a moment or two of silence, and then she speaks again. “I’m not saying getting a drunk is a universally good thing. But it’s not necessarily a bad thing, either. It all depends on the context. The important thing is that it’s your own choice.” She snorts suddenly. “And this conversation is getting *way* too philosophical and touchy-feely for me. So. It makes no bones to me either way, but if you ever do decide you do want to give inebriation a try, give me a heads up and I’ll keep an eye on you. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say shyly, meeting her gaze again. “I mean, I don’t think it’s likely, but thanks. I… I really appreciate the offer.”

She shrugs carelessly. “I don’t care what you decide, Stark, only that it’s your decision. Anyway, speaking of drinks, all this talking has made my throat dryer than a dead dog’s dick.” Scanning the room, she leans across the table and bellows. “Oi, Frenchy! Your round.”

I guess that means this conversation is over.

 

* * * * *

 

“Sounds like you’re having a great time down there,” Arya says, sounding a little envious.

“It’ll be your turn soon enough,” I reassure her, knowing what’s going through her mind. “Just be patient.”

“Easy for you to say,” she mutters. “You’ve made your escape already.”

I roll my eyes at the ceiling, stretching out more comfortably on the bed and adjusting the phone so it doesn’t dig into my ear.

“Now you’re being melodramatic.”

“Maybe I’m taking a leaf out of your book,” she fires back, but the words are edged with humour, not malice.

“Does that mean you’ve finally stopped tracking mud through the house?” I reply, laughing.

It’s funny. We seem to be getting along so much better since I moved away to university. Not that we ever got on badly or anything, but there’s always been the occasional squabble and spat. I guess it doesn’t help that we’re so different. She loves the outdoors; I’m more comfortable inside. She lives in jeans; I prefer dresses and skirts. She likes weapons and active, physical hobbies, while I prefer reading, or writing, or embroidery.

Except I guess that last part’s not so true anymore, not since I started going to LARPs and re-enactment training.

Huh. Maybe the two of us are more alike than I thought.

She’s quiet for a moment.

“How did you know about that?” she asks, suspiciously. “Did Mum say something?”

“Lucky guess. So, what happened?”

“It really wasn’t my fault.” Her tone takes on a touch of defensiveness, and something long familiarity with the emotion lets me recognise as embarrassment. “The ground didn’t *look* that treacherous. I think I caught my foot in a sinkhole or something. Anyway.” She sighs heavily. “I ended up sliding all the way down the hill on my arse and then I landed in a ditch. The ditch was full of mud. I got covered in it. Like, Atreyu in the Swamps of Sadness covered. No, worse than that. Head to toe, swamp-thing-slash-mud-monster kind of covered.”

I try to hold in my laughter, but my efforts aren’t especially successful.

“It’s okay,” Arya says, grudgingly. “You can laugh. Get it out of your system. The others have already had more than their share of fun at my expense. I suppose *you* might as well get in on the action.”

I give up on even trying to keep my mirth under wraps.

“It’s just the mental image,” I hiccup out between fits of giggles. “An Arya-shaped mud monster stomping through the halls. It’s kind of hilarious.” I make a half-hearted attempt to get myself back under control. “I’m guessing the floors ended up a little worse for wear…”

“I took my boots off!” she says, sounding indignant. “And I avoided the carpeted areas. But that meant I had to take the long way around, so I kind of left a trail all the way to the bathroom. I don’t know why Mum was so upset. You’d think she’d be pleased that I had the presence of mind to go straight to the shower. At least I didn’t trail mud across her precious *carpets*.”

“Good job, too,” I say, wincing at the thought. “Do you know how much those would cost to replace?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. Because she *told* me. In excruciating detail. While lecturing me about responsibility and common sense and all that other boring stuff. But I *was* being responsible. What did she want me to do? Hose myself down in the yard? I would’ve caught my death! And then she’d have complained at me for that, too.”

“What were you even *doing* traipsing through the grounds at this time of year? Especially when it’s been this damp.” She mutters something inaudible. “Excuse me? I didn’t quite hear you.”

“I *said*, I was doing some outdoor fencing practice.”

I raise an eyebrow, even though she can’t see it.

“Outdoors? In the mud? Is that…” Sane? “Safe?”

Actually, I suppose her recent misadventure would seem to have already answered that question…

“My instructor says it’s good to learn how to balance and move on different types of terrain,” she says stiffly.

“I doubt your instructor told you to practice on a muddy Yorkshire hill towards the end of a very wet November,” I point out.

“You cannot rely on being able to ensure favourable conditions for a conflict, so you should make sure to practice on a variety of different terrains, including the less than ideal.”

It sounds like she’s quoting something. Or someone. Probably this erstwhile instructor of hers. If you ask me, he sounds more than a little irresponsible, putting such ideas in her head.

Although, if I’m honest, it’s not like my baby sister really needs any help in that regard. She’s more than capable of coming up with reckless endeavours all by her very own self.

“Arya, this is the twenty-first century,” I point out. “Do you really think someone’s going to challenge you to a duel?”

“More like me challenging them,” she scoffs, hurriedly adding. “But no, I’m not *expecting* to have to duel anyone.” Her ‘more’s the pity’ is no less audible for being unspoken. “It’s the principle of the thing. If you’re going to do something, you might as well do it right. Don’t you think?”

“I suppose so,” I sigh. And I can understand where she’s coming from. It’s the same philosophy that stops me taking short-cuts when I’m trying to replicate authentic crafting techniques. I mean, why bother at all if you’re not going to go the whole hog? But then again, making something with extreme, painstaking precision is hardly likely to lead to me tumbling headfirst into a ditch, is it? “Just be careful, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt.”

I know the admonition is probably futile, but I have to try anyway. Who knows, maybe this time will be the one that sticks.

Maybe.

I’m not holding out that much hope.

“I know, I know. You don’t need to worry though. I’m okay — it was mostly my pride that took a beating.”

“Better your pride than your body.”

“I think Mum was more worried about the floors than about me,” she says, and there’s an edge of bitterness to her words.

“You *know* that’s not true,” I instantly reply. “She does worry about you. She loves you. She loves all of us. It drives her crazy that she can’t keep all of us safe all of the time. I bet she only yelled about the floors once she was sure you were okay, right?”

“I guess,” she says reluctantly. “But you have to admit she wishes I was more like you. More ladylike. More *proper*.”

She spits the word like it’s a curse.

For Arya, it probably is.

“She just wants what’s best for you, that’s all. It’s not her fault that her ideas of what’s best are a little… specific. But she loves you just as you are.”

I can’t help reflecting that Arya clashed with Mum pretty much from birth. She always was more of a daddy’s girl.

And with that thought, it hits me all over again.

Dad’s gone.

He’s gone and he isn’t coming back.

I wonder if the loss of him is going to ever stop feeling like a hole in my heart; like an empty place that can’t ever be filled.

“I miss Dad,” Arya says in a small voice, showing that our thoughts were — for once — moving in the same lines.

“Me too.”

We share a long moment of silence.

Mourning. Remembrance.

The simple knowledge that neither of us is going through this alone.

It helps, I think. To know that I still have the rest of my family.

We may disagree, even argue, but no matter what happens we’ll always have each other.

Family: for better, for worse, forever.

The unofficial Stark family motto.

It certainly makes more sense than the official one.

“So,” I say in a lighter tone, when I think the silence has stretched on too long. “Other than swimming in mud puddles, what have you been up to since we last spoke?”

As she fills me in on the ups and downs of life up north, I find myself smiling at the thought that in a few short weeks, I’ll be seeing them all in person.

And even though I’m going to miss (Daenerys) all my new university friends over the Christmas break, I’m really looking forward to being back at Winterfell for a while.

After all, there really is no place like home.

 

* * * * *

 

“What have you got there, Sansa?”

Without even waiting for me to reply, Ygritte reaches over without so much as a by-your-leave and plucks the things I’m holding right out of my grasp.

“Hey! Give those back.”

It takes a moment — and the fact that Ygritte and Missandei are staring at me with identical, nonplussed expressions — for me to realise that those words came from me.

Part of me wants to cringe, to apologise, to *back down*, but instead I stiffen my spine and give Ygritte my best glower.

“It’s rude to grab things,” I say stiffly, sounding so much like my mother that it scares me.

“Sorry,” Ygritte mutters. Looking a little sheepish, she hands the sheaf of paper back to me. Of course, her contrition vanishes without a trace in the next breath, replaced by a wide grin. “Look who’s learned to stand up for herself,” she says cheerfully, nudging me with her shoulder. “Good for you, Sansa!” I draw breath to reply, but then she leans into my personal space, craning her neck a little as she blatantly tries to read the letter that’s uppermost on the pile. “So, what have you got there?”

I briefly consider just telling her to mind her own beeswax, but dismiss that thought as soon as it forms. Her curiosity is roused now, and I know she’s not going to give up until she finds out. Ygritte may generally be laid-back and carefree, but when she sets her mind to something, she invariably manages to achieve it.

Anyway, it’s not exactly a secret. If I was that bothered about my colleagues finding out, I wouldn’t have brought this stuff into work.

Standing up for myself is all very well, but I need to pick my battles.

“It’s just some brochures I’m looking over for one of my brothers,” I say, spreading the items in question out on the countertop. Ygritte starts flipping through them, and even Missandei abandons all pretence of working to lean in and examine them.

“Winterfell Retreat and Spa,” Ygritte reads aloud. “Ooh, fancy. So, how come your brother’s sending you these? Is he thinking of going? Taking a special someone, maybe?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively. “If so, tell him from me that his girl or guy’s likely to jump his bones right quick after a surprise like this. I know I certainly would! And, take it from me, a spa is a *great* place for a little hanky-panky.”

I blush deeply.

“No, that’s not… It isn’t… It…” Deep breath, Sansa. Don’t get flustered. She’s just trying to wind me up. On the other hand, this is Ygritte: she’s probably not *just* trying to wind me up. Either way, it’s definitely working. “Rob’s thinking about turning part of the family estate into a spa, and possibly a conference centre. He’s looking into costs and options at the moment, so he’s made some mock-ups of brochures to help with polling the focus groups. He just wanted to know what I think about them.”

I glance down at the brochures, impressed with their glossy professionalism. They certainly look more striking than the draft versions Mum sent me before. When I look up, the other two are staring at me again.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Your family has an estate?” Missandei enquires.

“Are you nobility or something?” Ygritte wants to know.

“Well, um, my father is… was… a baron,” I say slowly. “Winterfell has been in the Stark family for generations. They were granted the land and the title by William the Conqueror, and they’ve held it ever since.”

“So does that mean you’re a… a baroness?” Ygritte seems amused rather than awed, which I guess is a good thing.

“No, it doesn’t work like that I’m afraid. The wife of a baron becomes a baroness, but the daughter of a baron doesn’t. Unless he passes away and leaves her his only heir, but then things get complicated.”

“But the… baron… baronetcy? The thingummywhatsit’s passed down, right?”

“Yes, to the eldest legitimate son. In this case, that’s my brother Rob.”

Jon’s older, I guess, but — much to Mum’s great relief, and his — the legitimacy clause put him out of the running. It’s funny, I think Mum and Jon have never agreed so fervently about anything else at all.

“So he’s now Baron Stark?”

“Lord Stark, actually, or Lord Winterfell. Or, if you want to be really formal about it, The Right Honourable Rob Stark, Lord of Winterfell. Baron is only used on legal documents.”

Ygritte frowns. “And your Mum is Lady Stark?”

“Yep. Or Lady Winterfell, or The Right Honourable, etc. And if Rob gets married, she’ll become the Dowager Lady” — although that’s *not* an ‘honorific’ any of us will ever use to her face if we know what’s good for us — “and his wife will become the baroness.”

She shakes her head. “Man, this stuff is complicated.”

“Not really,” I say, shrugging. “There are rules and conventions and what not underpinning it all. It’s easy once you get used to it.”

“If you say so,” she sniffs. “But, more importantly, do *you* get a title or anything?”

“I can technically call myself ‘The Honourable Sansa Stark’ if I want to,” I say, pulling a face. “But I don’t tend to bother.”

“You totally should!” Ygritte says, thwacking me lightly on the shoulder. “*I* would if I had the option. I’d write it on *everything*. Ooh, I know — you should get yourself some business cards printed. Go on! You know you want to…”

“I don’t think so,” I say, shaking my head emphatically.

I knew there was a reason I don’t normally tell people about this. Luckily, Missandei saves me from Ygritte’s misplaced enthusiasm. While Ygritte’s been giving me the third degree, she’s been studying Rob’s brochures thoughtfully. She holds one up now, pointing to the crest on the front.

“Is this the Stark family heraldry? The wolf’s head?”

“Yes. Apparently it’s supposed to be a dire-wolf — basically a giant, extra-fierce kind of wolf.” I shrug a little sheepishly. “I guess my ancestors were into the whole intimidation factor thing.”

“Hmm,” she says, noncommittally. “And the words underneath? They’re in Latin, aren’t they?”

I nod. “Venit hiems. The Stark family motto. It means ‘winter is coming’.”

“That’s an… interesting family motto,” she says, a glint of amusement in her eyes. “Do you know why the ancient Starks chose those particular words?”

“No idea, I’m afraid. It’s probably something to do with preparing for bad times during good ones. Although there’s a popular family theory that — coming from somewhere just a tad warmer than northern England — one of my ancestors commented on how cold it was here, only to be told by a local that winter was on its way, and he should wait until then to complain about the cold.” I shrug. “I think the first is more likely, but I kind of prefer the second.”

I remember wearing gloves and socks and even a woolly hat in bed, wrapped around a hot water bottle as if it was the greatest treasure in the world, convinced I could actually see ice forming on the inside of my window. At times like that, I could definitely believe that the family motto has its roots in a complaint about the temperature.

I certainly complain often enough. I *hate* being cold. I think I get that from Mum. The rest of my siblings will happily traipse about in short-sleeves when the two of us are huddled under about a billion and one layers and *still* shivering.

“No work to do?”

Asha’s voice snaps me out of my reverie. I quickly gather up the brochures and stuff them back into their envelope. Missandei snags a cloth and starts wiping down the countertop.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Ygritte says, dismissively. “All the customers have been seen to. It’s fine. Anyway, this is *much* more important that swabbing the poop decks or whatever. Did you know that we have a secret noble in our midst?”

If she’s hoping to shock or surprise Asha, Ygritte is sadly disappointed. Asha doesn’t even raise an eyebrow as she ties on her apron.

“You mean Sansa? That’s not exactly a secret.”

“You *knew*?” Ygritte says indignantly, pouting like this is a personal affront. “You knew and didn’t tell the rest of us?” Wheeling around, she fixes me with an expression of wounded betrayal. “You told *Asha* and not me? How could you, Sansa? I thought we were cool!”

“Um, I- I-“

“She didn’t tell me.” Asha’s voice cuts across my hapless stammering, so I fall silent and let her speak. “I recognised the name. She’s a Stark from Sheffield — it wasn’t hard to figure out. Her family have been around almost as long as the Greyjoys. Matter of fact, her ancestors tangled with mine, way back when.” She gives me a fierce grin. “Just as well that’s in the past, right Stark?”

I swallow a little, but stand up straight and quirk an eyebrow at her, doing my level best to channel my inner Alanna.

“Why, are you afraid you’d lose again?”

Ygritte’s sudden indrawn breath is audible, and my stomach twists a little uneasily, that little voice at the back of my mind whispering that now I’ve done it, now I’ve gone too far, now I’ve made her angry and it’s all my fault, all my fault…

But Asha’s grin just widens, and there’s something a lot like approval in her eyes.

“Tell yourself that if you like,” she says, clapping me on the shoulder a little harder than strictly necessary.

“Never mind ancient history,” Ygritte says impatiently. “Let’s focus on what’s important here. You knew Sansa was the daughter of a baron and you didn’t say anything.”

Asha shrugs. “Wasn’t anyone else’s bloody business,” she says simply. “Figured if Stark wanted to say anything, she would. So stop complaining and get back to work.” She turns her beady eye onto the other two of us. “That goes for you too.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Ygritte grumbles, but she does what Asha says. Even if she does so while moving as slow as humanly possible without actually standing still.

Missandei and I share a look, and with one accord, we find somewhere else to work.

Neither of us wants to get caught up in *that* brewing argument.

Just then, the doorbell chimes merrily and Shae steps into the shop, smiling at us as she makes her way behind the counter.

We’re technically supposed to use the back door to enter and exit the shop — something about ‘maintaining the illusion that we only exist to serve the customers’ — but we don’t usually bother.

“Hello ladies,” Shae greets us as she comes behind the counter. “Did I miss anything exciting?”

As if that’s the cue she’s been waiting for, Ygritte whirls around to face Shae, her expression alight with excitement. There’s not a trace of her previous sulk to be seen.

“Shae!” she says, with relish. “You’re *never* going to guess what we’ve just found out…”


	14. Chapter 14

“So, I hear you’re a Lady…”

Those are the first words out of Daenerys’ mouth when she opens her front door.

It takes me a moment to reply. Rather than a skirt, or even jeans, she’s wearing a blue satiny — dress, I suppose, although part of me wants to say robe. It’s very… flowy and swirly, flaring around her hips as she moves. It’s a brilliant cobalt blue, the colour striking against her skin and making her now-evenly-bleached hair seem almost white. Embroidery circles the hem, collar and cuffs; abstract designs picked out in thread of pale yellow and lighter blue.

(She looks stunning. Like a queen.)

I really want to get a closer look at that needlework.

Belatedly, I realise that I should probably answer her instead of just standing here staring (at her) at her dress.

What did she say again? Oh, right.

“No, merely ‘The Honourable’. I *did* explain this to the others already.”

I sigh heavily and she grins at me as she stands aside to let me into the hallway, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

(Her dress *really* brings out the colour of her eyes.)

On a second glance, I notice some signs of wear on the material, and there’s a line along part of one seam where it’s clearly been mended. Mended very neatly, mind you, but still. The dress isn’t new. It’s just been well-cared for. Maybe not worn that often?

“I know, I know. Missandei was quite precise in her account, don’t worry. I just thought it would be fun to wind you up.”

I should say something; compliment her on it. It (she) *does* look amazing.

I should have mentioned it as soon as she opened the door. I can’t just interrupt her now — I’ll have to wait for an appropriate segue.

Touching me lightly on the shoulder, Daenerys lowers her voice a little to add: “You do flush very becomingly, after all.”

I blink, not sure I heard her correctly, all other thoughts flying right out of my head. I open my mouth to ask for clarification — although I’m not sure if I really want it — but she continues on as if she didn’t say anything out of the ordinary.

“Go on through into the living room and make yourself comfortable. I’ll rustle up refreshments. Do you want a hot drink? I have a caramel hot chocolate I think you’ll like. Otherwise, there’s coffee and the usual assortment of herbal teas.”

I must have misheard her. That, or she was making a joke that I just don’t get. Either way, I dismiss it from my mind and head towards the living room.

“I’ll try the caramel hot chocolate, please. It sounds delicious.”

“Alright, won’t be long.”

I take a seat on the sofa, marvelling at how nice it feels to have someone waiting on me for once. Even if I can’t quite completely banish the nagging feeling that I should get up and offer to at least help, if not take over completely.

I think working in the service industry has completely spoiled me for being a guest.

Still, it’s not exactly a great hardship to bear.

I open my handbag and root around in its cavernous depths until I find the DVD I’m looking for. I really should sort my bag out one of these days. I’m sure there’s stuff in here I can easily cull. Maybe I should just tip the whole thing out and only put back in the things I actually need with me on a day to day basis.

Soon. I’ll do it soon.

“I’ve been meaning to ask,” comes Daenerys’ voice from the kitchen. “How are you getting on with those Kushiel books? Are you enjoying them?”

“Oh, um.” I can feel the blush spreading across my cheeks like wildfire through a dry forest. “I’m just starting the third book now. I’m enjoying them a lot, thanks. But, um, I wasn’t expecting them to be quite so…” My cheeks burn even hotter. “Explicit?” 

I am *so* glad Daenerys can’t see me right now. Although I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I’m glowing so brightly that my face is visible even through the *wall*. But, thankfully, there are no exclamations about scarlet incandescence.

I guess I’m safe for now.

“Oh,” she says, and I can’t quite place the tone of her voice. “They are rather explicit in places, I suppose. I probably should have warned you, sorry. But the viewpoint character is a courtesan, so I guess I just assumed it would be obvious.” Well, when she puts it that way, I really do feel like a fool. “I hope it didn’t shock you too much,” she adds, and the humour in her voice comes as something of a relief.

It’s even enough to dissolve the apology bubbling up in my throat before it can emerge into the air.

“It’s okay,” I say. “It just… took me a little by surprise, that’s all.” I manage a light laugh of my own, deliberately *not* thinking about what it felt like to stumble across the first of *those* scenes. “I don’t think I’ll be taking them home during the Christmas holiday, though.”

A shudder runs through me at the very thought. God, if Arya or Rob found them, they’d rib me mercilessly forever and ever. Jon would probably be too embarrassed to say anything, but I’d be able to feel him judging me. Bran would be confused, and possibly faintly disgusted. Rickon… Well, Rickon probably wouldn’t try to actually read them, but leaving other people’s stuff around for him to get his grubby mitts on isn’t exactly the best of ideas. And then there’s Mum.

Nope, not thinking about that.

*Really* not thinking about that.

(But, even more than the thought of my mum catching me reading books like that, I’m emphatically *not* thinking about Daenerys reading them. I’m not wondering what she thought of the… the sex scenes. Whether she was embarrassed or… or *not*.)

(And I’m not-not-*not* thinking about the fact that she likes girls, or wondering what kind of girl she finds attractive, or what kinds of things she likes to do with girls she finds attractive.)

(It’s just curiosity, that’s all. The exoticism of the unfamiliar.)

(The same reason I found myself lingering a little over some of those scenes.)

(Just some. Not all.)

(But some of them were just… Were so…)

(I don’t have the words.)

“The drinks are ready.”

Daenerys emerges from the kitchen, her appearance making me start guiltily, as if she’s caught me doing something illicit while all I’ve doing is quietly sitting here, lost in thought.

Apparently I really *was* lost. Distracted by thoughts of…

Never mind.

I just hope it wasn’t too long.

And I *really* hope she wasn’t trying to talk to me while I was busy spacing out or whatever.

But she doesn’t look annoyed, or worried, or anything like that, so I guess she wasn’t.

Well, that’s a relief.

I make a mental note to try to rein in the daydreaming. I’m not a child anymore! I can’t just lose myself in imaginary worlds when there’s something real right in front of me.

Piled high with whipped cream and liberally drizzled with chocolate and caramel sauce…

I can’t help licking my lips.

“That hot chocolate looks *so* good,” I murmur, taking the mug she offers me. I inhale deeply. “It smells good, too.”

“Well, I hope you like the taste.”

“I’m sure I will,” I say, tearing my eyes away from the vision in front of me to smile up at me.

“Oh, before I forget, you’ll probably need this.” She hands me a spoon. “For the cream.”

“No need to be polite on my account,” I tease. “I’ve seen you use just your fingers and tongue before.”

She has the *oddest* expression on her face, and I can’t help wondering what-

Oh.

*Oh.*

The previous conversation (and those times I thought about Daenerys and Doreah — or Daenerys and Asha — being *together*; plus that one mortifying time curiosity made me google how girls liking girls actually works) suddenly provides some desperately unwanted, but probably absolutely necessary, context.

Horrifyingly embarrassing context.

“I didn’t mean-“ I blurt out, but can’t even bring myself to finish the sentence. “I just meant in the coffee shop. Sometimes when you order a drink with whipped cream, you- You know…”

This isn’t helping; this isn’t helping!

In desperation, I show her what I mean, swiping a little bit of cream off the top of the hot chocolate with my finger and licking it clean.

Oh god, now she’s *staring*. And her expression is no less unsettling.

This isn’t helping.

This isn’t helping at *all*.

In fact, now it’s even worse, because she must realise why I got so flustered and why I’m frantically trying to explain and justify myself and why I’m blushing so very, very hard right now…

I should have just said nothing. I should have just carried on merrily as if I wasn’t aware of any unintentional double entendres. Maybe she wouldn’t even have said anything. Maybe she would just have chalked it up to my raging foot-in-mouth syndrome and just let it go.

But now… Now she knows *exactly* where my mind just went.

I just hope she assumes it’s because we were talking about those books.

I hope-hope-*hope* she doesn’t think (realise) I was thinking about her.

I mean, not that I was thinking about *her*, exactly. Not really.

Oh for the power to rewind time. Or to erase memories.

Or to just not do this kind of thing in the first place.

“Um,” says Daenerys, shockingly, derailing my train of thought so completely that the only thing I can focus on is that ‘um’ is usually my line, not hers. *I’m* the one making a complete fool of myself here. Why is *she* flustered? “I, ah, I need to get the popcorn. We can’t watch a film without popcorn. Is a mixture of salt and sweet okay, or would you prefer them separately?”

I make a conscious effort not to um or stutter.

“Mixed is fine.”

“Okay. I’ll be right back!”

She sets her mug and spoon down on the table and dashes into the kitchen as if her hair is on fire.

Great. Now she’s embarrassed for me. She probably just wanted to flee from the horrific awkwardness of this conversation. I can’t say that I blame her. And I’m kind of glad of the respite.

Right. Get it together, Sansa.

I take a couple of calming breaths. I’m not sure it helps, really, but it’ll have to do. I eat another dollop of whipped cream, this time using the spoon rather than my finger. That helps more. From the kitchen comes the hum of the microwave, shortly followed by the popping of popcorn.

“I’ve got the DVD out,” I call to her. “Should I put it on?”

“You’d best let me do it,” she calls back. “Our DVD player can be a little temperamental. We inherited it from a previous tenant and I think it’s on the verge of giving up the ghost.”

“Okay.” I hope it won’t damage my DVD. I’m sure it’ll be fine, though. She knows how much this means to me. I’m sure she wouldn’t risk it getting stuck or scratched or anything like that.

A short while later, she strolls out of the kitchen carrying a large bowl of popcorn which she sets down next to me on the sofa. She takes the DVD case I hold out to her and crosses the room to cajole the player into working.

(For a garment containing so much material, her dress seems to cling awfully tightly as she bends down.)

I occupy myself with my drink.

“I like your dress,” I blurt out, a little more gracelessly than I would have hoped. “That colour is *amazing*.”

“Thanks,” she says, sounding pleased. She twists around to flash me a smile before turning her attention back to the apparently recalcitrant DVD player. “It was a present from my grandparents. On my dad’s side.” I don’t know if I’m just imagining it, but there’s something in her voice, something that sounds like… sadness, maybe? And there’s a moment where she doesn’t say anything, where I could… Should I? Should I ask her about the family she never normally speaks about? Would it seem like prying? But I hesitate too long, and the moment is lost. “It’s my comfort dress, I think. I sometimes wear it when I’m just lounging around the house.”

“It seems too nice for that,” I can’t help saying.

She shrugs, making the material ripple around her.

“Maybe when it was new. But I’ve had it for ages now.” She laughs. “You should have seen it when they first gave it to me — I practically drowned in the material! I think they meant for me to grow into it.”

“Well, it certainly seems to fit you now,” I say, and then I blush.

Mercifully, she doesn’t turn around to see my embarrassment and a neutral: “Thank you,” is all she says. A few moments later — just about long enough for me to collect my scattered wits — she straightens up. “Okay, I think the DVD player is finally co-operating. You don’t need to worry about your disc, though — it doesn’t tend to damage them or eat them or anything like that. It’s just hard to get them to play sometimes.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.” I wasn’t *really* worried. Well, not much. But it’s still a relief to hear her say that it’ll be fine. I even relax enough to smile without worrying it’s going to look like a grimace. “This caramel hot chocolate is really good,” I tell her when she joins me on the sofa.

“I’m glad you like it,” she says, her usual flawless composure back in place as she picks up her own drink and sinks carefully back into the cushions. She glances around the room, then turns to me and raises one eyebrow quizzically. “I think we’re ready to watch the film. Don’t you?”

“Definitely,” I say. “I still can’t believe you’ve never seen ‘The Princess Bride’. It’s a classic!”

She laughs. “Well, it’s lucky I have you to educate me, isn’t it?”

With that, she starts the film.

And I’m sure the warm feeling in my chest is just because of the caramel hot chocolate sliding smoothly down my throat and heating me from the inside out.

That’s all.

What else could it be?

 

* * * * *

 

The instant the end credits start rolling, I turn to Daenerys and ask:

“Well? What did you think?”

Not that I’m desperately hoping she likes it or anything. Not that I’m practically vibrating in place with my eagerness to know what she thinks.

Except I totally am both of those things.

Yes, I know it’s pathetic, but for once in my life I really don’t care.

Oh, I really, really hope she likes it!

Please let her like it.

“I liked it,” she says softly. Yes! I resist the urge to punch the air in triumph. I’m already trying to sort through the mass of follow-on questions bubbling up behind that one, when I realise that she hasn’t stopped speaking. “I mean, I wish Princess Buttercup had been a *little* more proactive, but the characters were great, and the story really drew me in.”

“Great! I’m really glad you liked it. It’s one of my favourite films of all time, I think. What did you think of the ending? I think that’s my favourite part. The triumph of true love over death itself! So hopeful. So… So *romantic*.”

I beam at her in anticipation, but my smile falters a little when I notice that my enthusiasm doesn’t seem to be reflected in her expression.

“The ending was okay,” she says slowly. “I really liked the message about strength of will triumphing over adversity. But it’s just…”

“What?” I press impatiently, when she doesn’t continue fast enough. “What didn’t you like about it?”

“It was fine for what it was, honestly. But it’s just that, well, I’m not sure I believe in the whole ‘one true love’ thing. So it kind of threw me out of the moment.” She pauses there, giving me a tentative smile, but all I can do is stare at her in nonplussed bewilderment. “It’s not the film’s fault,” she adds hurriedly. “I really liked the rest of it, and I’m glad you shared it with me. Thank you.”

She looks at me expectantly, and I finally manage to find my voice.

“You don’t believe in true love?”

That wasn’t *quite* what I was intending to say. Nor was I intending to sound so very forlorn. I *feel* forlorn, though. And shocked, and more than a little confused.

How can someone like Daenerys not believe in love?

“I said I don’t believe in one true love,” she corrects gently.

I turn that over in my mind. It’s better than not believing in love at all, I suppose, but I still don’t get it.

“Don’t you find that a little…?” I begin hesitantly. “A little…” What’s the word? “Bleak?”

Now she’s the one who looks at me with confusion.

“Bleak? No, not at all. Quite the opposite, actually.”

I shake my head at that, not in denial, but in complete and utter bewilderment.

“I don’t understand.”

Daenerys sighs.

“Well,” she says. “What if you meet someone, and they are your one true love, your soul mate, your sun and stars? It’s wonderful, right? Sunshine and rainbows all the way?”

“Right,” I say, because she seems to be expecting a reply.

“But what if you lose them?” she asks, and the words are ragged and raw, shot through with pain. “They were your one true whatever and they’re *gone*. What then? Are you destined to be alone for the rest of your life? Do you have to settle for something lesser, something inferior? And what of all those people who *don’t* beat the odds, who *don’t* find their special someone? Are they all doomed to either solitude or second-best?” She shakes her head vehemently. “No, I don’t believe it. I won’t *accept* it. It’s far too depressing. I’d rather have hope.” By the end of her little speech, she’s breathing heavily and her hands are clenched into fists. She looks at her curled fingers like she’s never seen them before, slowly opening them out with a soft sigh and looking up to meet my eyes. “I’d rather have hope,” she repeats softly.

She looks at me like she’s willing me to understand, and I do, I think. I understand why she sounds so passionate about this; why it seems to very personal.

“Did you lose someone?” I ask.

My voice is barely above a whisper, but she flinches as if I’d screamed at the top of my lungs, dropping her gaze as if there’s something fascinating hidden in the folds of her skirt. She brushes an invisible speck of lint off her knee.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

“Okay.”

I frantically search my mind for some other topic of conversation; something safer. I don’t really want to talk about the film any more, not until I have this minefield better mapped out. Unfortunately, I seem to be somewhat lacking in conversational inspiration right now.

“I’ll retrieve your DVD,” Daenerys says suddenly, all but leaping to her feet and striding across the room.

“Thanks,” I tell her retreating back (and politely avert my eyes when she bends down).

Should I go? Does she want me to leave? I try to think of a way to ask her that, tactfully, when she asks:

“Would you like another hot chocolate? Or tea or coffee or something?”

Oh. Maybe she doesn’t want me to leave? Unless she’s just being polite, but I’m not sure… I don’t know… But I have to give her an answer.

“Um, yes please. I’d love another one of those caramel hot chocolates, if you don’t mind.”

“That’s fine,” she says, and it might just be my imagination, but I fancy that the smile she bestows on me then looks almost relieved. “I’ll just go and make them.”

She hands me the DVD and snags our used cups and spoons, disappearing off into the kitchen again. As soon as she’s out of sight, I lean back and close my eyes, letting out a long, slow breath. Some of the tension evaporates from my chest.

It’s okay. We’re okay. I haven’t managed to alienate her with my awkward questions and stupid naiveté. We’re still friends.

(“They were never your friends.”)

(Shut the… Shut the heck up. You’re *wrong*. She is my friend. She *is*.)

“I think Inigo Montoya is my favourite character,” she calls from the kitchen, and it takes me a moment to realise that we’re back to The Princess Bride.

Okay. I can do this. I just have to make sure I steer clear of ‘controversial’ topics like true love.

Right then.

Even though she can’t see me, I open my eyes and sit up straight.

(It’s far easier to sound composed if you actually look the part.)

“What do you like about him?”

“He’s just so dedicated to his goal. He doesn’t falter, doesn’t give up. Not even when it looks like it’s going to cost him his life. He does exactly what he sets out to do — makes his enemy pay for their crimes. You’ve got to admire that kind of grit.”

“I suppose so,” I say slowly, mulling her words over.

I guess, thinking about it, her favouring Inigo does make a certain amount of sense. She’s determined, and passionate, and her word is important to her. (And, loathe though I am to admit it, she isn’t one to let a slight go unanswered.)

“I bet I know who your favourite character is,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “You’re a Princess Buttercup girl, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” I hedge, blushing. Because, of course she’s right. Apparently Daenerys does know me after all. I just hope she doesn’t think me impossibly naive, or childish, or stupid, or-

“Because she finds her one true love?”

I cringe instinctively, already half-expecting derision, but the words are spoken lightly, almost teasingly. At the same time, I think — maybe — she actually sounds interested in the answer. Like, maybe she wants to know what my thought processes are.

(And not just so she can criticise them.)

So I take a deep breath and speak my mind.

“Because she survives,” I say, simply.

For a few moments, the only sounds from the kitchen are those of our drinks being prepared.

“What do you mean?” Daenerys eventually asks.

I shrug to myself, staring down at my hands, clutching the DVD case so tightly my fingertips are starting to turn white. Well, even whiter than usual. I loosen my grip and shove the case into the bottom of my handbag.

“Well, she’s kidnapped — twice — and she’s going to be forced into a marriage to a man so vile she’d rather commit suicide than go through with it. But not only does she come through all that with her sanity intact, she still, after everything, believes in true love. She still has hope. And I think… Maybe it would have been better if she’d rescued herself rather than being the damsel in distress; I don’t know. But I think she showed real strength.” A thought occurs to me, and I laugh a little, although it sounds strange to my ears. “It’s a like Phedre in the Kushiel books, I guess. Sometimes passivity — or what looks like it — is actually power.” It feels like I’m on the edge of something, some realisation, but then self-consciousness crashes over me like a wave and I find myself blushing. “Um, at least that’s what I think,” I add awkwardly.

Daenerys is silent so long I begin to wonder if my little monologue has sent her to sleep, but then she finally speaks.

“Oh, Sansa. Just when I think I’m getting to know you, you reveal yet another layer.” She laughs softly, and the sound seems to go right through me. Not unpleasantly; not in a way that makes my stomach twist and my chest constrict. But in a way that warms me deep inside; a way that makes me feel… “I think it’s one of the reasons why I like you so much.”

She likes me! She does like me. I (hoped so) knew it. Even if I am awkward sometimes, and shy and clumsy.

She likes me.

But then the rest of her words catch up with me, and I can’t help frowning in bewilderment.

“But I’m not particularly complicated,” I say. “Really. I’m…”

(“-so fucking shallow, Sansa. You’re-“)

“…about as deep as a puddle.”

She doesn’t answer right away, but then all of a sudden she comes striding out of the kitchen like a force of nature, setting the cups down on the table with enough force to slosh cream and chocolate liquid over the sides. Before I can say so much as a word, she’s leaning over me, her hands on my shoulders, her face no more than inches away from mine.

I stare, mesmerised by the sapphire depths of her eyes, flashing now with what looks like… like fury.

“You’re *not* shallow,” she says, her voice low and fierce and for one dizzying moment I wonder if she actually heard the voice in my head as it echoed my words to her. (As I echoed its words. His words.) “And you’re not clumsy, or slow, or fragile, or any of the thousand and one other terrible things you’ve said about yourself in all the time I’ve known you.”

“But I haven’t…” I say, too confused to even be scared at the fact her hands are gripping me almost tight enough to hurt and she’s so *angry* right now. “I don’t…”

“You’re always putting yourself down,” she says, and now she almost sounds… If I didn’t know better, I’d say she was trying not to cry. “I can’t stand it, Sansa! You’re smart, creative, funny, pretty, and graceful, and I really wish you could see that. I wish you could see what I see when I-“

She breaks off there, breathing so hard I can feel her breath on my lips, hands gripping my shoulders as if she’s about to lift me up and I think I should do something but I don’t know what and…

And…

And all I can do is stare at her helplessly.

(Because passivity isn’t just my power; it’s my curse. Paralysis as the flip side of endurance, causing me to freeze in the face of the unknown or the unexpected.)

Time passes. A moment, and eternity; I don’t know which. But after far too short a time — or maybe too long — she heaves a great sigh and lets me go.

(I feel like I’ve just lost something.)

I feel utterly confused.

“What-” is all I can manage.

“I’m sorry,” she says, grinning a little sheepishly as she sinks onto the sofa beside me. “I get a little carried away sometimes.”

“Um,” I say, and then, because I absolutely have to know for sure, I ask: “Did you really mean all that?”

If I were the one who’d just let out an outburst of emotion, I’d be hedging and stuttering and hiding my face. But Daenerys isn’t like me. She sits up straight, takes a deep breath and looks me right in the eye.

“Yes,” she says. Direct and to the point; no prevaricating. “I meant every word.”

“Oh.” I don’t know what to say. What *can* I say to that? “Um, thank you.”

Gee, that doesn’t sound pathetic at all.

“You don’t need to thank me,” she says. “I just wish you didn’t feel the need to put yourself down all the time.” Slowly, as if I’m a deer that might spook at a sudden movement, she leans forward and takes my hands in hers. They’re warm; warmer than mine, certainly. I might have known her blood would run hot. “Someone told you all those things about yourself, didn’t they? Someone told you all those lies?” She draws in a long, slow breath, and I find myself breathing with her. “Who was it?”

“I-” A name rises in my mind; unbidden, unwanted. *His* name. “I-” I could tell her. I could tell her about the things he said to me. The things he did. I could tell her. “I-” But what if… What if she thinks he was right? I couldn’t stand- No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t think that. I know she wouldn’t. “I-” But what if she thinks I should have been stronger? Should have stood up for myself more? Should have… No. No, I can’t. Not now, not yet, maybe not ever.

I swallow hard.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” I all-but whisper.

 

* * * * *

 

We breathe together. One breath, and then another, and then another. And then she sighs deeply, breaking the sequence, breaking the spell.

“Alright,” she says. “But if you change your mind, you can always talk to me. You know that, don’t you?” I can’t bring myself to speak, so I just nod. “Okay, then.” She squeezes my hands gently, once, and then lets go. “I’d better get those drinks before they go cold.”

She clicks her tongue in annoyance when she sees the rivulets of chocolate drying on the outsides of the mugs and pooling around their bases, ducking into the kitchen for a cloth to wipe up the mess.

“Sorry about that,” she says, smiling ruefully as she hands me a mug and settles — carefully — back onto the sofa with the other one. “I don’t think I’d make a very good barista.”

“I’m sure you would,” I say quickly.

She snorts at that, sounding so much like Asha for a moment that I blink at her in surprise.

“It’s nice of you to say so, but I don’t think I have the patience for that kind of work. I’d end up losing my temper with one of the customers, or getting annoyed with the manager and unionising all the employees.”

She laughs a little, and I laugh with her. I assume she’s exaggerating for comic effect, because I really can’t imagine her being anything other than a consummate professional in the workplace. Even if that workplace is a mostly student-frequented coffee shop. I wonder what it would be like to work with her…

I suddenly realise that she’s eyeing me thoughtfully.

“What is it?” I ask, feeling self-conscious under her scrutiny. “Do I have whipped cream on my face?”

I swipe ineffectually at my chin with my fingers, but she shakes her head, her eyes glinting with amusement.

“No, you’re fine. It’s nothing like that. I was just wondering…”

“Yes?” I prompt, when she doesn’t seem inclined to continue.

“What’s Asha like to work with?”

And speaking of minefields…

“Um, it’s fine, actually. She’s pretty good at doing all the day-to-day management stuff that Mr Baelish” — (doesn’t want to bother with) — “delegates to her. And she keeps on top of things like orders and stuff. She doesn’t tend to deal with the customers all that much now, only if there are any complaints. There aren’t many of those, though.”

I make myself stop talking before I slip into full babble mode, burying my confusion in caramel hot chocolate.

Note to self: try making a caramel mocha next time I’m at work. I bet that would work really well.

“That’s interesting, but I meant more along the lines of: what is she like as a person?”

“Um, fine. It’s… She’s fine. She can be blunt, but that’s just her way. I seem to get on well enough with her. And, like I was telling Missandei, she always sticks up for us with the odd stroppy customer, or with management. So, um, yeah. Fine.” I can’t tell what Daenerys is thinking right now. Her face remains inscrutable as she sips her own drink. Does she mind that I get on with Asha? I don’t know. I just don’t know! “Missandei is settling in well,” I blurt out.

“She seems to be, from what she’s said.” I wonder what else Missandei has said. Not that I have any secrets or anything, but it’s just... Well, I guess there’s… “So, I understand you’ve joined Living History Soc.”

Right. That. Not exactly a secret, but somehow I haven’t exactly gotten around to telling Daenerys about it. I meant to, kind of, but…

Oh well. I guess the cat’s out of the bag now.

I just hope she’s not annoyed with me.

“Yes.” Still no reaction. Oh well; in for a penny, in for a pound. “Asha kind of dragged me along, um, when she heard I’d started going to LARP. I wasn’t really expecting to actually like it. I just went along to be” — I wince inside — “polite. But I did like it, so I kept going.” I shrug. “I’ve been going ever since.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

Is she annoyed? Disappointed? Upset? Not bothered at all? I just can’t tell. Why can’t I tell? Darn it.

“No, well, um. As I said, I wasn’t really expecting to like it, so I thought it would just be a one-off thing. But then I kept going, and then it sort of felt like it was a bit too late to just bring it up. And so, well, it never came up.” Breathe, Sansa. I follow my own advice, shrug awkwardly, then decide to just bite the bullet and ask her directly. “Are you…? You’re not upset, are you? That I didn’t mention it? It was just kind of awkward.”

“Because of Asha?”

“Um, yeah.”

She sighs.

“No, I’m not upset. I’m… guessing you know something about the… What’s a good word? The history between Asha and me?”

“A little. Maybe.” It suddenly occurs to me that she might think Asha’s been airing their dirty laundry, so I hasten to reassure her. “Asha didn’t say anything, don’t worry. But there was a… a rumour…”

Does it count as a rumour if I only hear it from one person? I think it does. I think it’s close enough for me to feel like putting it that way isn’t a lie, at any rate. I just don’t want to name Shae as my source.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.” Now I can *finally* get an impression of what she’s feeling under that mask. She seems a little sad. “We did have some pretty public fights. Loud ones, too. I suppose there’s nothing like a loud, public fight for providing grist for the rumour mill.”

“I guess,” I say awkwardly. Suddenly feeling the need to give Daenerys at least the illusion of space, I concentrate on finishing my hot chocolate.

“Did you think I might be upset that you were hanging around with Asha and her friends?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” I sigh unhappily, just wanting this conversation to be over. “I didn’t really know you all that well back then. And as time went on, it just got harder to bring it up. So, um…”

I can’t think of anything else to say, so I just trail off into silence.

Daenerys doesn’t *seem* to mind. Either joining Asha and her fellow re-enactors, or not telling her about it. So that’s something, I guess.

It’s certainly better than the alternative.

“I used to be a member of LH Soc., you know,” she says suddenly.

I wasn’t expecting *that*.

“Really?”

“Really. I left after Asha and I…” She shrugs. “It got… awkward.”

“I can see how it might be.”

I get the impression that sides were taken. The older re-enactors are clearly *Asha’s* friends, so…

Awkward indeed.

Even though it doesn’t seem like Daenerys to back down, about anything, so things must have *really* gotten ugly.

I’m kind of glad it was before my time.

“Anyway,” she says firmly. “That’s all in the past. So let’s talk about happier things.”

She smiles, and it’s as if the sight of it chases all my worries and cares away, driving them completely out of my head.

I can’t help but smile back.


	15. Chapter 15

“So let’s hear it for our new crafting instructor!” Renly’s words are met by enthusiastic — and slightly tipsy — cheering from the re-enactors filling the pub’s tiny back room.

“Thanks everyone,” I say, blushing furiously even as I smile so broadly that it makes my cheeks hurt.

Maybe it isn’t such a bad thing to be in the limelight once in a while.

Although I can’t help feeling a little relieved when people start turning their attention back to their previous conversations and away from me. You can have too much of a good thing, after all.

“Congratulations, Sansa,” Pod says shyly. “I’m sure you’re going to do a fantastic job.”

“Thank you,” I say, beaming at him.

“You’ve certainly helped me a lot. I’d probably have given up long before now if it wasn’t for you.”

“Um, you’re welcome?”

I don’t *think* I’ve helped him out particularly more than anyone else; just the odd technical tip and a few words of encouragement. I think he was more in need of the encouragement, to be honest. He never said anything about being on the verge of quitting, but I’m glad he didn’t. He seems nice — good-natured and enthusiastic, if a little shy — a little like a puppy, or a younger brother.

Okay, not any of *my* brothers. They’ve always been somewhat more rambunctious than I imagine he’ll ever be. But *a* little brother; one who follows you around and looks up to you.

It’s quite sweet, really.

I can’t help noticing that his cheeks seem to be a little flushed. It is a little warm in here, I suppose, but I think that maybe… Is he blushing?

“You’re, um,” he says. “You’re-“

Before he can finish that sentence, Renly leans in and puts an arm around his shoulders companionably.

“I’ll have a glass of red wine, thanks Pod. A decent one, if they have any. *Not* Rioja. Anything but that.” He pulls out his wallet and presses a note into Pod’s unresisting hand. “And get something for yourself, while you’re at it. Do you want anything, Sansa?”

“Um, no thanks.” I hold up my barely-touched diet coke. “I’m okay for now.”

“Right then, off you pop, lad.” Lad? He’s not *that* much older than Pod. A couple of years at most. “Committee meetings are thirsty work!” He lifts his arm from Pod’s shoulders, making a vague shooing motion in the direction of the bar.

“Oh. Right.” Pod looks from me to Renly and back again, seeming thoroughly discombobulated. Lacking any words of wisdom for him, I just shrug and smile. It doesn’t seem to help. “Um, okay. Thanks. I’ll be back soon.”

He toddles off to the bar. As soon as he’s out of earshot, Renly leans in towards me and — unusually for him — lowers his voice to a murmur.

“Apologies for butting in on that endearingly awkward proto-conversation, but I want to give you a little heads up. On the off-chance you’re somehow not aware of it, our boy there has a raging crush on you.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in.

Pod. A crush. On me.

On *me*.

“What?” I say. I stare blankly at Renly, who sighs dramatically.

“You really didn’t know, did you?” That seems to be a rhetorical question, which is just as well. I’m too busy doing my best goldfish impression to even think of a reply. “Asha said you’d be clueless, but I didn’t really think… Oh well, never mind. You know now.”

My brain latches onto the one part of that sentence that actually makes it through the cotton wool swaddling my mind.

“Asha? You talked to Asha about this?”

Renly shrugs easily.

“She knows you better than I do. I wanted to check how best to approach the subject. She was going to march over and tell you herself, but…” He gives an exaggerated wince. “Can you even imagine? The Viking giving advice on matters of the heart? Might as well ask a bull how best to display fine china.”

“That seems a little mean,” I say, stung out of my paralysis by the slight to Asha.

“Oh, it’s only in fun,” he says, waving a hand impatiently. “She knows I don’t really mean it. But let’s not get side-tracked. You really had no idea about Pod?”

I’m not sure he’s right about Asha taking it all in good fun, but I guess that’s a bit of a tangent to the matter at hand right now.

I shake my head fervently.

“No. Not a clue.” And then, because this whole conversation is starting to seem a little surreal, I have to ask: “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” he says. “And Loras agrees with me.”

For a moment, I almost ask if the whole darn club knows except me, but that brief spark of indignation is completely swallowed up by incipient panic.

“But… But I haven’t *done* anything,” I say, my voice uncomfortably close to a whimper, the heat in my cheeks due more to discomfort than to embarrassment this time.

(“You’re such a cock-tease, Sansa.”)

Renly gives me a searching look, then leans in to put his arm around me. Once I suppress my instinctive flinch, it’s actually a little comforting. I’m sure that’s how he intends it, anyway.

(And I barely feel trapped at all.)

“It’s okay,” he says, and he sounds sympathetic. “I’m not saying you did this on purpose.”

“I didn’t!” I hasten to reassure him. “I wouldn’t.”

He frowns a little at that, but I don’t know why. When he speaks again, his voice is low and soothing. I recognise that tone. I’ve heard my father use it on spooked animals.

Do I seem like a spooked animal right now?

I take stock. Flushed cheeks, racing heart, breath coming shallow and fast.

Okay, I guess I do seem pretty spooked.

I focus on the easiest thing to control, my breathing, forcing myself to take slow, deep, even breaths.

The first step to becoming calm is appearing calm. And even if you never manage to actually make it all the way to calm on the inside, at least you look like you have on the outside. That’s often good enough.

“You were nice to him, that’s all. You helped him when he needed it, spoke kindly and smiled at him.” He flashes me a wry grin. “And have you even seen yourself in the mirror? I mean, I’m as bent as a three bob note and even *I* can tell you’re pretty.”

Huh?

I just stare at Renly for a few moments, completely gone out, before I give myself a mental kick to shake off this paralysis.

“Um, thank you?” I think. This is all a little too much for me to process right now. “But I don’t understand,” I continue. “I’m nice to lots of people, and they don’t…”

Oh god. They don’t, do they? Have I been flirting unknowingly with people all this time? Have I been l- ?

“Sansa,” says Renly, thankfully interrupting my mental flailing. “The thing you have to understand here is that it’s not about you. Guys get crushes, that’s all. Hell, *people* get crushes. It doesn’t matter if the object of their affections hasn’t done a single thing to encourage it. Sometimes it’s just a case of ‘right place, right time’. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but LH Soc. isn’t exactly a female-rich environment.”

“Oh.”

I guess I had noticed. I just hadn’t really thought through some of the implications. Thinking about it, I guess the same is true of the LARP group, too, which I suppose probably explains Daario. If he even was going to ask me what I thought he was going to ask me. Which he probably wasn’t.

And I’m getting distracted.

My mind is a jumbled, chaotic mess right now. I can’t think of a single intelligent thing to say, so I stare miserably into my glass as if there’s some wisdom to be found in its depths.

There isn’t.

Renly sighs and sits back, letting his arm drop away from my shoulders.

(The tension in my muscles relaxes fractionally, and I breathe just a tiny bit easier.)

(Not that I was worried.)

(Not really.)

“Maybe I should have let Asha talk to you after all,” he says. “The only reason I’m even telling you this is because Pod’s a good kid, and I don’t want him to get his heart broken. I was just going to ask you to let him down gently, that’s all. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“I’m not-“ I can’t quite bring myself to finish that sentence. That lie. “You haven’t upset me,” I say instead.

That’s… technically true, because I’m sure a *normal* person wouldn’t have been upset by Renly’s revelation. (“Sansa, why are you such a freak?”) So, looking at it that way, *I’m* the one who’s upset me.

“Are you sure?” Renly asks.

“Yes.” I summon up a smile from somewhere and force myself to meet his gaze. “Don’t worry about it, honestly. Thank you for the warning, and I’ll try to be careful. I like Pod. I don’t want to do anything to hurt him.”

“Oh. Well, good.” He starts to say something else, only to break off with a hearty: “There you are! I was starting to wonder if I should send out a search party.”

“There was a queue,” Pod mumbles. He carefully sets a glass of red wine down in front of Renly, who immediately snags it and takes a deep draught.

“Ah, that hits the spot,” he says, genially. “Good choice. Thanks, Pod.”

Pod beams. “You’re welcome,” he says. “Oh! Your change.”

He does a little awkward dance as he tries to fish out Renly’s change without dropping his own drink. Not that it would be the end of the world if he did drop it — I can tell by the label that it’s a rather inferior microbrew. I tried it once out of curiosity — and because it’s really, really cheap — and immediately regretted it. Sometimes it’s worth going for quality, rather than quantity, even on a student’s budget.

I think about offering to help him — and I even get as far as opening my mouth to speak — but then I worry if it will give him the wrong impression. So instead I sit paralysed, trying to pretend I can’t see how much he’s struggling.

I feel horrible.

“There’s no rush,” Renly says affably. “Sit yourself down first and- Oh, hey you.”

Distracted from finishing his sentence by Loras’ approach, he reaches out wraps his arm around his… his boyfriend’s waist, pulling him in for a lazy hug. Loras lets himself be drawn in.

“Hello there,” he says, and he smiles down at Renly in a way that makes me tear my gaze away (slowly, though; like trying to resist the pull of a singularity), my cheeks blazing like an inferno.

Wow.

(I wish someone would smile like that at me.)

Apropos of nothing, I find myself wondering if Daenerys ever smiled like that at the person she lost. If they — he? — ever smiled like that at her.

(Did Doreah? Did Asha?)

(Nope, not going there.)

(Not going there at *all*.)

“Get a room, you two,” Asha says loudly, making me start. I look up to see her striding towards us, bumping Loras none-too-gently with her shoulder as she marches past him to plonk herself down in the seat next to me.

Oh, thank god. I’m not going to end up sitting next to Pod.

I’m sure it’ll be alright when I’ve had a little more time to process what I now know about him (and half wish I didn’t), but right at this moment I’m not sure I can interact with him without feeling terribly, terribly awkward.

“Got a room, thanks,” Renly says, grinning like he’s just won the world. “And that’s where we’re heading when we’re done being sociable.”

“Then keep it in your pants until you get there,” Asha says, but I’m not really paying attention to her.

I’m looking at Loras, who all-but freezes at Asha’s comment, his face going still and blank. He disengages from Renly now, moving to take a seat. Renly reaches for him again, but stops when Loras shakes his head minutely. A hurt expression flashes briefly in Renly’s eyes, but it’s gone again as soon as it appears. He takes a substantial swig of wine and turns to Asha with what I think is only a mock glower.

More or less.

“You’re such a cock-block, he grouses.” Asha just laughs and salutes him with her beer. He rolls his eyes at her and turns to Loras. “And, speaking of cock-blocks, when’s your sister getting here?”

“She’s due to arrive on Friday evening,” Loras says. “That is,” he adds, with a small, wry smile. “Assuming that there are no leaves on the line and as long as we don’t have the wrong kind of snow.”

“Margaery’s coming to visit?” Asha says, looking interested.

Loras starts to answer, but Renly gets there first.

“Yes, and I don’t see why *you*” — he waves his glass in Loras’ direction — “can’t just give her a key to your place and stay with me next weekend. I’m sure your housemates would be fine with it.”

“Trust me, they won’t. And even if they were, the landlord definitely wouldn’t be,” Loras explains patiently, with the air of someone who’s said the exact same thing many times before.

“But-”

“No, Renly, I’m not going to risk it. Anyway, I can’t just leave her on her own. It would hardly be a very brotherly thing to do.”

“You are *such* a rule-follower,” Renly pouts.

Loras’ eyes narrow. “Why do you say that like it’s a bad thing?”

There’s a tense moment where they just look at each other, and I start to wonder if we should leave them alone or something, but then Renly sighs dramatically.

“Fine, okay. You win. I’ll stop complaining about you abandoning me for your sister.” He points at Loras, “But you *are* going to make it up to me once she’s gone. Okay?”

Loras doesn’t *quite* smile, but the lines of his face soften and there’s humour in his eyes as he inclines his head and says: “I think I can manage that.”

“How long is she staying for, again? How many nights am I going to be bereft of your company?”

“She’s going back home Monday evening.”

“Doesn’t she have school or something?”

School? I guess that means Margaery is his younger sister. But presumably she’s not *that* young if her parents are letting her come up to Nottingham on the train all by herself.

“It’s a teacher training day.”

“Of course it is,” Renly grumbles. “Okay, fine. Whatever. I’m sure I’ll cope somehow.”

“Is she going to come to training on Sunday?” Asha asks.

“She was hoping to, if that isn’t a problem.”

Asha shrugs. “Shouldn’t be. She just needs to fill out an updated health information form. Remind me: has she turned eighteen yet?”

“No, not for another few months.”

Okay, that answers the question of her age.

“Then we’ll need a signed letter from your parents saying she’s allowed to take part.” She grins. “Got to cover our arses, you know.”

“It won’t be a problem,” Loras assures her. Renly pulls a face, but forbears to comment.

“What’s your sister like?” I ask, unable to contain my curiosity any longer.

Loras smiles at me. “Margaery is quite outgoing — a regular social butterfly, in fact — and she’s involved with more school committees and organisations than I can keep track of. She shares my love of history, although she’s always been more interested in the people and societies than the battles. ” He gives me a considering look. “I think the two of you will get on well.”

“She’ll certainly like *you*, no doubt about that,” Asha interjects. She’s smirking like that’s supposed to be funny, but I can’t for the life of me think why. Loras gives her a quelling look, but she just stares back at him until he’s the one who looks away.

Sometimes it seems like I’ll never figure out the dynamics of this group. I mean, I think I’ve got the broad strokes down pretty well, but the more I try to pin the details down, the more they slide around.

And the devil, as they say, is in the details.

Oh well. I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.

Maybe.

Who knows, perhaps seeing how they interact with Loras’ sister will shed some light on the matter. Either way, I think I’m looking forward to meeting her. She sounds nice.

Maybe we’ll even become friends.

I think… I think I like making friends.

 

* * * * *

 

“I’m not saying it was a *bad* film,” I say, shrugging. “Just that it wasn’t quite what I was hoping for.”

“But it’s The Hobbit!” Reza exclaims, looking at me like I’ve just grown a second head. I try not to smile, even though I do find his expression just a little comical. “It’s Bilbo Baggins, the unlikeliest adventurer in Middle Earth. It’s Gollum and Gandalf and dwarves and elves. What *else* were you hoping for?”

“Maybe a little more humour?”

“What about the dwarf song at the beginning?” he replies. “You can’t say that wasn’t funny.”

“Okay,” I concede. “I’ll give you that one. But what about the rest of it?” Warming to the subject now, I find myself leaning forward a little in my eagerness to make Reza understand where I’m coming from. “One of things I love about the book is its sense of whimsy. It’s not this big, epic *serious* quest” — I make an exaggerated frowny-face, beetling brows and all, to emphasise ‘serious’ — “it’s just a fun little adventure. Which isn’t to say serious things don’t happen, but I wouldn’t call it a serious story.” I crack a smile. “And now the word ‘serious’ has ceased to have any meaning at all to me.”

Reza flashes me a grin in return, then his expression becomes earnest again. “Maybe that’s true, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. I mean, I love the book too, but after LotR, there’s no way Peter Jackson could have filmed it exactly as it is. Talk about mood whiplash! I mean, the trilogy *is* epic, and a prequel has to be consistent with that. Anyway,” he says, drawing himself up like a lawyer in some courtroom drama. “Even Tolkien *himself* went back and edited The Hobbit so as to bring it more in line with the world-building in Lord of the Rings. So,” he says, a note of triumph entering his voice. “Jackson’s adaptation is arguably truer than a straight up translation would have been.”

“Arguably,” I say, laughing a little. “But I’m pretty sure I would have preferred that straight up translation.” He starts to launch into another argument, but I hold up a hand. “Nope, sorry. I’m invoking the ‘matter of personal taste’ card. And you can’t argue quality against taste. We agreed.”

“But- Oh, okay, fine.” He shakes his head, smiling. “But I’m not conceding the point, only the strategy.”

“Just as long as you are conceding,” I say airily.

I consider trying for a smirk, but then I think better of it. When I caught sight of my expression in the mirror that time (not that I was practicing or anything; not that I would *ever* practice in front of the mirror), it actually made me look a little deranged. I settle for leaning back in my seat and taking a celebratory sip of my caramel dark chocolate mocha.

A pretty fine concoction, if I do say so myself: smooth and rich, cut with just the right amount of bitter-sweetness to stop it from being cloying. I do like sweet drinks, but there’s something to be said for trying something different once in a while. It’s probably not to everyone’s taste, but I like it.

“So…” Reza says, sounding a little hesitant all of a sudden. “Does that mean you don’t want to come to the premiere of Desolation with me and the guys?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say slowly, trying to weigh up the pros and cons.

“Benedict Cumberbatch as Smaug,” Reza says helpfully.

I nod. “Definitely a point in its favour. But, as I said, the first film didn’t really wow me. And it’s the last day of term. I’m pretty sure I’ll have to spend some of the evening packing.”

“Yes, but you said your train home isn’t until Saturday afternoon,” he points out, his tone eminently reasonable. “You’ve got the whole morning to finish your packing. Besides, you know you’ll have the bulk of it done by then. You’re organised like that.” 

“I guess,” I mutter. And I know he’s probably right. I’ve pretty much already figured out what I want to take. I just haven’t worked out how I’m going to carry everything. Oh well. I guess I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it. “But,” I continue in a stronger tone. “I was already planning on going to the cinema sometime that week.”

“You can see more than one film in a week, you know,” he says, laughing.

“I know, but I’m supposed to be trying to save some money and…” I trail off, suddenly aware that I’m not even convincing myself. “I suppose it’s not that expensive,” I say. “Especially with the student discount.”

“Right,” he says, nodding enthusiastically. “Anyway, what’s the other film you’re going to see?”

Oh. Great. He actually sounds interested. I suppose that shouldn’t surprise me, not really. Why oh why did I have to even mention the other film? I can’t very well not answer him. And, much though I’m tempted, I can’t very well lie about it.

I guess that means I’m going to have to answer him.

“Um,” I say, flushing a little. “I’m going to see Frozen.” And, because I might as well go the whole hog, I add. “You know, the new Disney flick.”

“Seriously?” he says, and I cringe inside, half-expecting scorn or mockery. But instead, he just looks pleased. “Hey, me too.” Huh. Okay, I was not expecting that. “I think I’m probably going to go to the premiere,” he continues, surprising me further.

“You like Disney films?” I ask.

“Yep,” he says, without any apparent trace of the self-consciousness tightening my chest. “My parents practically raised me and my brothers on them. They’re a family institution. Unless Frozen turns out to be dire, I’ll probably see it again with them when I go home for Christmas.”

“I *love* Disney cartoons,” I say, my discomfort melting away in the face of his obvious enthusiasm. “Especially the princess ones. I always have and I probably always will.” I almost leave it there, but I find myself compelled to continue. “But I don’t usually tell people that, because some of my…” I pull a face. “Some people have said it’s childish.” I shrug, managing a genuine smile. “I’m glad you don’t think so.”

“Those people are idiots,” he says, cheerfully, but there’s a shadow in his eyes as he continues. “Trust me; I know. You don’t want to know what they say to *guys* who watch so-called ‘little-girls’ cartoons’.”

Ah, yes. ‘They.’

*Them*.

(Him.)

With friends like those…

Looks like Reza and I might have something else in common.

“Well, who cares what they think?” I proclaim in a vaguely decisive-ish tone. “As you said: they’re idiots.”

“Right,” he says, his gaze brightening again. “Hey, I just had an idea. Why don’t we see it together? I mean, if you’re not already going with someone else, that is.”

“I’m not,” I say. Which was probably fairly obvious, but it’s nice that he didn’t just assume.

I’m struck by a sudden feeling of deja vu: Reza asking me out to the cinema. But this time is nothing at all like that one. I don’t feel pressured, or uneasy or uncomfortable. I don’t feel like I have to agree just to be polite.

“So, do you want to see it with me? It doesn’t have to be the premiere, although that would be cool. No pun intended. And do you want to see Desolation with the archery crowd?”

The last of my resolve — such as it was — fades away without a trace. I could say that Reza’s persuaded me, but it wouldn’t quite be true.

When it comes down to it, no matter what my thoughts on the first part of The Hobbit, I really *do* want to see that dragon on the big screen. And I would *love* to see Frozen as soon as it opens.

Anyway, it’s almost Christmas.

Well, it’s December, which is close enough.

So, I guess I’ve persuaded myself.

But, before I can tell Reza that, another voice says:

“Hello Sansa.”

“Daenerys? Hi.” I smile up at her, struck at the way the rare winter sunlight turns her hair to spun silver and her eyes to brilliant sapphires. “I didn’t see you come in.”

To my surprise, she doesn’t smile back. In fact, she barely even looks at me at all, her gaze settling firmly on Reza.

“You’re Reza, aren’t you.” It’s not really a question, and her voice is strangely flat.

“Um, yeah,” he says, looking uncertainly from her to me and back to her again. “We spoke once before, kind of.”

“I remember,” she says shortly. “You were trying pressure Sansa into going out with you.” Her eyes narrow. “Are you trying to do that again?”

What?

“What?” Reza almost whispers, unknowingly echoing my own silent question. “That wasn’t- I didn’t-“ He flicks his gaze to me, his expression almost pleading. “Sansa?”

For a long, horrible moment, I can’t say a word, but I gather up every last drop of my willpower and *make* myself speak.

(Even though part of me wants to stay still and quiet; to not get involved. But I just can’t do that. Like it or not, I *am* involved, and I’m the only one who can set this right.)

“He wasn’t-” is all I manage before Daenerys cuts me off, talking right over my words as if she doesn’t even hear them.

“And don’t try to pressure Sansa into covering for you, either. Just because she’s too polite to tell you to fuck off, doesn’t mean *I* have to be.”

I feel my eyes pop wide open and I just stare at her in amazement, too stunned even to blush.

“Daenerys?” I squeak.

“It’s alright, Sansa,” she says, still not really looking at me. “I know you have trouble saying ‘no,’ but it’s alright. I’m here to look out for you.”

“But-”

But I wasn’t *going* to say no, I scream, but only in the privacy of my own mind. And now Reza is staring at me and he just looks utterly *shattered*.

“Is that…? Did you really feel…?” He takes a long, deep breath, and I feel the hitch in it as if it was in my own chest. “I never meant to…” he mumbles, looking away. “Maybe I should go.”

“I think that would be best,” Daenerys says, and her tone is so sharp she could cut someone with her words alone.

I think maybe she just has.

“You- You don’t…” I trail off, not knowing how to finish that sentence.

You don’t have to go? To Reza.

You don’t *understand*? To Daenerys.

But I dither too long, warring with myself, and before I know it Reza has grabbed his things and, with a barely-audible goodbye, he’s gone.

And Daenerys… Daenerys gives a satisfied little nod. Like she’s done a good thing. Like she hasn’t just hurt and driven away one of my *friends*.

Like she hasn’t just

(ruined things)

effectively called me a pathetic (fucking) little *coward* who can’t stand up for herself.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whisper, finally finding my voice. *Finally*, when it’s all too late; when my friendship with Reza has been burned to ash and cinders.

“I don’t mind looking out for you, Sansa,” she says, in a gentle voice that would on any other occasion have me grinning at her like a fool. And then she smiles at me in a way that just about breaks my heart. “It’s what… what friends do, after all.”

“No,” I say, my voice stronger now. “I mean, you didn’t *have* to protect me from Reza. He wouldn’t hurt me. He’s my friend.”

And I’m *not* that scared little mouse I was when I first met you, I think, but I can’t make myself say those words out loud.

Her smile falters, and she looks so lost and confused for a moment that my heart breaks again, and I almost want to take it all back.

To tell her I didn’t mean it.

To tell her that she did the right thing.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “I thought-” She bites off her words so abruptly that I’m almost surprised not to hear the audible clack of teeth. “I’m sorry if…”

I can’t help softening at the look in her eyes, and I frantically search for some way to salvage this, to somehow make things right again, but before the roiling in my mind can settle down, I find myself interrupted once more.

“Daenerys, can I have a word with you?”

It’s Asha this time, and aside from a brief — and surprisingly gentle — squeeze of my shoulder, she ignores me completely.

“Excuse me?” Daenerys’ gaze shutters, her voice more or less neutral as she turns to face Asha.

“Let’s go outside, shall we?” Asha grins mirthlessly, and I can’t help thinking of sharks and other things with too many teeth. “There are some things we need to talk about.”

Daenerys holds her gaze for a moment, and then nods jerkily.

“Fine,” she grinds out. “Goodbye, Sansa,” she says, in a gentler tone, but before I can reply she turns on her heel and strides out of the shop. I can’t help flinching a little at the incongruously cheerful ping of the doorbell.

“I’m going on my break,” Asha announces to me. “You can mind the shop.”

And then she too heads out.

Leaving me wondering what the two of them are going to talk about.

Leaving me to worry that Asha, like Daenerys, also thinks I’m some helpless, hapless maiden in perpetual need of rescue.

Leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I wish I could just go; could just walk out and find somewhere to curl up and cry.

Instead, I get up and mechanically start to clear the table.

I suppose I should be grateful I have something to do.

And I can distract myself, at least a little, by concentrating on cleaning the shop within an inch of its life.

At least that’s something I can probably get right.

Probably.


	16. Chapter 16

I pace back and forth from one end of my room to the other, trying to pluck up my courage.

Just pick up the phone, I tell myself. Just pull yourself together and make the call. It’s not that hard.

It shouldn’t be that hard.

But it is. Of course it is.

Except… Except that doesn’t matter, does it? Because I don’t have a choice. Even though it would be easier, so much easier, to just stick my head in the sand and pretend none of this ever happened, it wouldn’t be *right*. I have to try to fix this.

I have to.

Right.

Before I can change my mind, I stride boldly(-ish) towards my bedside table and snatch up the handset. Thankfully, the line isn’t in use. Now that I’m finally committed doing this, I don’t know what I’d do if I had to wait. I guess I could use my mobile, but calls are so expensive on pay-as-you-go.

In any case, it isn’t an issue.

I take a deep breath, and then make myself slowly and methodically tap in the number.

Thanks to all my dithering, those digits are seared into my memory.

I count the rings, fighting the urge to hold my breath as the tension ratchets tighter and tighter with each one.

One. Two. Three. F-

“Hello?” The voice is male, but it’s not his. The shock of that realisation chokes me for a moment — I didn’t plan on having to speak to one of his housemates. “Hello?” the voice says again, this time a little impatiently.

Somehow, I manage to snap out of my paralysis.

“Um, hi,” I practically squeak. “Is- Can I speak to Reza, please?”

“Just a minute,” the unnamed housemate says. There’s a clunk, then a moment or two of silence, and then a distant yell. “Reza! Phone for you.” Silence again, then: “I don’t know. Some girl. I’m not your answering service.” Silence. I think my heart might explode from the stress of it all. “He’s just coming down.”

I jump a little, only just managing not to yelp in shock.

“Um, thanks.”

“No problem.”

There’s that clunk again. Belatedly, I realise that it must be the sound of the phone being set down on some solid surface. A table, probably. It doesn’t really matter. After an interminable amount of time, I hear a familiar voice.

“Hello?” Reza sounds curious, but not cautious. Not wary.

I swallow.

“Hi Reza. Um, it’s Sansa.”

“Sansa.” Okay, *now* he sounds wary. I suppose I’m not really surprised by that. I shouldn’t be, anyway. Not after what happened. “Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” I echo automatically, mentally kicking myself when I realise I already said that. “How are you?”

Could I possibly sound any more inane? It could happen, I suppose, but I’d pretty much have to be doing it on purpose at that point.

“I’m… fine,” Reza answers slowly, sounding a little confused. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine, thank you.”

Ingrained courtesy brings forth the polite little lie without any conscious effort, and I can feel my determination start to falter. I have a horrible feeling that the next words out of my mouth are going to be some banal little observation about the weather, instead of what I really want to say. Well, not *want*. What I need to say. So I grab my courage in both hands and force myself to take back that polite nothing.

“Actually, that’s not true,” I say, and my words come out all in a rush. “I feel pretty horrible, actually. I have ever since that… that thing with Daenerys in the coffee shop the other day. I should have said something at the time, I know I should, but I… I was just so stunned. Which isn’t really an excuse, I know. But it’s the only explanation I have. I’m sorry, Reza. I’m so sorry.”

I have to stop there, have to fight back the not-quite-tears that prickle at the corners of my eyes before they can well up and become the real thing. The absolute last thing I want right now is to start bawling down the phone.

“Are you saying…” He breaks off, clears his throat and starts again. “Are you saying it wasn’t true, what she said?”

I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yes.”

“So you *didn’t* feel pressured? You didn’t think I was trying to, I don’t know, drag you off to the cinema against your will?”

It just sounds so utterly absurd when he puts it that way. It might even have made me laugh if I didn’t feel so much like crying right now.

“No. No, I didn’t.”

“Then why did she think that?” He sounds so sad, so utterly bewildered, that my eyes start to well up again in sympathy. I squeeze my eyelids tightly shut as if that can keep the tears inside.

“I-“ is all I can manage to choke out.

“Is it about before? When I asked you out that time? Because we already talked about that, and I thought it was all fine now. I thought we were fine.”

“We were. We are.”

“Did you think I’ve been hanging around with you all this time because I’m, what? Pining after you? Hoping you’ll go out with me?”

“No, of course not.”

Maybe I *had* been a little worried about that at first, but not now. Not for a while.

“Because, if you were worried, or if you did feel pressured, you didn’t have to call in the cavalry. You could just have talked to me.”

“It’s not that simple,” I burst out, then immediately wish I could take the words back.

“So it is true? You *do* think that?”

This is all going wrong. I should have known it would. I always make a mess of things. I always say the wrong thing, put my foot in it, upset people. I just can’t do anything right. I should quit while I’m behind, just give up on this before I make things even worse.

Not that they could get much worse.

(He could be angry with me instead of just upset.)

I-

I-

I remember thinking that *he* was wrong, that maybe I don’t always (fuck) mess everything up. I remember believing that with every fibre of my being. I remember, for the first time in a long time, believing in myself. Trusting myself.

I remember it, but I don’t feel it.

I…

It doesn’t matter though, does it? I have to try anyway, no matter how much I hate myself right now. I can’t just give up. I have to try to fix this. I- I have to believe it’s *possible* to fix this, one way or another.

(And even if I do make him angry, at least that means he won’t be upset any more. That’s a good thing, isn’t it?)

(Isn’t it?)

“No, Reza,” I say, and my voice doesn’t even shake a little. (At least I can sound like someone who believes in herself.) “I’m not explaining very well, I’m sorry.” I take a deep breath. “Sometimes I have trouble expressing myself. And I used to be *really* bad at standing up for myself. Or even just saying no.”

“So-”

“Please, let me finish,” I say, gently but firmly.

There’s a brief moment when I’m convinced he’s just going to slam the phone down and never speak to me ever again, but then I hear:

“Go on.”

“It isn’t anything to do with you. I know it’s a cliché to say ‘it’s not you, it’s me,’ but in this case it really is true. Sometimes I can be too polite for my own good. Like…” I hesitate for a moment, uncertain, then forge ahead anyway. “Like when you invited me to try out archery at the start of term.”

“So… you didn’t want to come along?”

“Not even a little bit. Sorry.”

“You could have just said that,” he says, but he sounds more puzzled than annoyed. I think I’m going to take that as a good sign. “I wouldn’t have been offended or anything.”

“No I really couldn’t. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It’s not just you, it’s everyone. Everything. How do you think I ended up joining LH Soc? Do I *seem* like the type of person who normally enjoys running around in the mud waving a sword around?”

“Yes, actually.”

Well, I wasn’t expecting *that*. Thrown a little by his answer, I pause a moment and attempt to get my thoughts in order.

“Well, maybe I do now. Sort of.” The sword-waving, at least. Not the mud. “But I only went in the first place because I couldn’t make myself tell her Asha I wasn’t interested.” And I guess it turned out for the best in the end, which isn’t really the point I’m trying to make here. Time to change tack. “Alright, maybe that’s not the best example. My point is, back then Daenerys asked me about the archery. And I maybe gave her the impression that I only said yes to be polite.”

If I’m honest, there’s no maybe about it. I did give her that impression. I know I did. Heck, maybe I even said that directly. I don’t remember any more. Looking back, it seems so long ago. It’s only been not quite three months, but it feels like a lifetime. I’ve changed so much.

Sometimes I feel like I don’t even recognise myself any more.

Not that it’s a bad thing. I didn’t really like the person I used to be.

But I’m getting distracted. Where was I? Oh, right. Archery.

“She didn’t understand it either,” I continue. “But I *never* said you were pressuring me. I don’t know how she got that impression. And since it never really came up in conversation, that misunderstanding was never corrected. So when she saw us the other day, I guess she just assumed the worst.”

All nice and neat and logical. It makes perfect sense, really. I know Daenerys feels protective of her friends, and she’s never struck me as being backwards about coming forwards. So if she thought she saw one of her friends in trouble of *course* she’d step in.

It’s just…

I don’t know. I have the nagging feeling that I’m missing something, and I can’t for the life of me think what it could be.

Maybe it’ll come to me. Maybe I can ask her about it when (if) she ever talks to me again.

I’m sure she will.

(I hope she will.)

It’s only been a few days.

(I miss her so much.)

Maybe she’s just been busy.

(Maybe she doesn’t like me anymore.)

The silence stretches on for so long that my eyes start to prickle again just from the mounting tension, that I actually start to wonder if Reza’s still there. But just as I’m drawing breath to prompt him, he speaks.

“Is that why she jumped in when I tried to ask you out the first time? Because she thought you’d agree to a date just out of politeness?”

“Um… Yes.”

I sigh heavily, feeling suddenly heavy with a weariness that goes right to my bones. I sink down onto the bed. I don’t even know how Reza’s taking all of this. I guess he hasn’t slammed the phone down yet, so that’s something at least.

I cling to that, and to the sliver of hope it gives me. Perhaps this friendship, at least, is one that can be salvaged.

“So, was there even a meeting? Or was that just something she made up on the spot.”

“There was a meeting,” I say, but my conscience compels me to go on. “But that was the first I heard about it.” I wince. “Sorry.”

I wish I knew what’s going through his head right now.

Heck, I wish I knew what was going through Daenerys’ head. What *is* going through her head right now.

(Is she thinking of me?)

(Do her thoughts bend towards me the way I keep finding my own thoughts drifting back towards her?)

(I really wish I knew.)

More than anything else, I wish I knew why friendships have to be so darn *complicated*.

“So, you still want to be friends with me?” Reza asks quietly. “Really, I mean? Not just out of politeness or pity, but because you actually, genuinely want to?”

Despite the bitter edge as he mentions pity, there’s something in his voice; a note, a tone that actually gives me hope. Something that makes me think that maybe it’s possible to fix this after all. For the first time since that awful, awful day, I feel my spirits start to lift a little.

“Yes, of course I do. I like you, Reza.” I sigh softly, rubbing my eyes with the back of my hand. “I don’t want to lose you as a friend.”

This time, he only pauses a short time before he answers.

“I’d be a pretty poor friend if I stormed off after one little misunderstanding,” he says, and of course I can’t possibly be certain, but I think he sounds like he might actually smiling.

All of a sudden, the tension seems to flow out of me, leaving me feeling limp as a wet noodle. I sprawl backwards onto my bed.

“Good,” I manage to say, relieved beyond all measure that I don’t sound as wobbly as I feel. “So, does that mean we’re back on for seeing Frozen this coming Friday? And for The Desolation of Smaug next week?”

“Sure,” he says enthusiastically, only to follow up with a cautious: “If you want to, that is.”

“I do,” I say firmly.

Tears prickle at the corners of my eyes again, but they’re tears of relief this time. (I hold them back anyway; there’s no sense falling back into bad habits.) I think I’ve actually managed to fix this. And if I can repair one, if not broken, then certainly dented friendship, then maybe I can do the same for another (more important) one.

(I just hope Daenerys still wants to be friends with me.)

I just have to figure out what I’m going to say.

 

* * * * *

 

My attention split every which way, I distractedly open the back door and almost walk smack bang into Daenerys. I freeze mid-step, unable to do anything but goggle gormlessly at her. She seems similarly locked in place (although I don’t think *she* could look gormless if she tried; even shock looks good on her), her hand upraised as if she was just about to knock at the door.

“Sorry,” I squeak, the apology bursting out automatically at the same time as Daenerys says:

“You’re early.”

“Um, sorry,” I say again. And then I register what she just said, turning the words over in my mind before admitting that I simply can’t make head nor tail of their meaning. “What?”

In the back of my mind, I hear the distant echo of my mother’s voice, telling me to say ‘pardon,’ not ‘what,’ but I ignore it. I can’t really bring myself to care about a little etiquette faux pas when *Daenerys* is standing on my *doorstep*.

I mean, half a week of radio silence, and then she just turns up out of the blue!

Not that I’m complaining, of course. (I’m really not complaining.) I just don’t know what’s going on.

(I hope she’s not angry with me.)

Daenerys shakes her head as if clearing cobwebs, and lets her hand drift down to her side as she gives me a small, cautious smile.

(The sight of even that much starts to thaw something in me that I hadn’t realised was locked in ice.)

(If she’s smiling, then surely things can’t be that bad. Surely I haven’t messed up so badly that it can’t be fixed.)

(Even if there is something strange and distant in her eyes.)

“I didn’t expect that you’d be setting out just yet,” she says softly. “I was hoping to catch you before you left.” She actually hesitates for a moment before saying. “I thought we could walk up to campus together. I was hoping to talk to you.”

A strange noise escapes my lips; a fit of laughter that bubbles up from deep in my chest, from a place where warmth is kindling and starting to spread throughout my body. Daenerys looks at me, confused, and I make an effort to get myself under control.

“Sorry,” I say. “It’s just… The reason I’m leaving early is because I was hoping to talk to you before LARP tonight.” I shrug. “It just seemed funny.”

She smiles at me, and this time the expression approaches something on the order of its usual brightness.

“I’m glad I didn’t miss you,” she says. “That would have been ironic.”

“Yes, it would.” I take a deep breath, trying to draw in courage along with the oxygen. “So, shall we walk and talk?”

“Let’s do that.”

Despite our intentions, we make it to the end of my street before either one of us says another word. Nervousness, maybe. Well, I’m nervous at any rate. Her… I honestly don’t know where her thoughts are right now. Wherever it is, I have the feeling it’s somewhere far away from here.

Much to my surprise, I’m the one who actually breaks the silence.

“About the other day…” I begin, but then stop. Despite the countless times I’ve rehearsed for this in my head, now it’s actually here I find myself unsure of how to proceed.

(My vocal cords are paralysed with a sudden attack of nerves.)

(I really don’t want to say the wrong thing and put my foot in it.)

Luckily, my false start seems to spur Daenerys into action.

Well, into speech.

“I’m sorry about stomping in and making a mess of things between you and Reza,” she says, getting right to the point. “I was trying to help, but I realise now that I’d completely gotten the wrong end of the stick. And I didn’t listen to you when you tried to tell me I was butting in where I wasn’t wanted.” She grimaces. “Asha finally managed to get that into my head. Along with a few other choice observations.”

Curiosity burns within me at the mention of her mysterious conversation with Asha. I hope she’s going to tell me more, but alas that seems to be all she has to say on the subject for the moment.

Darn.

“I’m…” Once more, an apology tries to crawl out of my mouth, but this time I manage to choke it back. Even though it feels like I shouldn’t try to fight it. Part of me — a large part — wants to tell Daenerys it wasn’t *her* fault, it was mine. That I was the one who messed things up.

(“You fuck up everything you touch.”)

Despite my good intentions, despite all my careful planning, part of me wants to roll over and beg for forgiveness.

But I-

(“This is all your fault!”)

I don’t think-

(Tell me you’re sorry, Sansa, and make me believe it this time.”)

I don’t think it *was* my fault. Not all of it. I mean, I *should* have spoken up more, instead of just freezing like a deer caught in headlights. I should have stuck up for Reza. And I should have found a way to explain the situation to Daenerys without upsetting her. That’s all on me. But she…

She should have *asked* me if I needed help.

She should have listened to me when I tried to tell her I was fine and that she was… she was wrong.

She was in the wrong.

And even though I feel disloyal even thinking that about (someone I care about) a good friend, I can’t just let that go.

I’d never respect myself ever again.

(When did I start respecting myself again?)

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly as I get my thoughts in order, covering my hesitation by adjusting the strap of my satchel.

“I know you were trying to help,” I tell Daenerys, aiming for reassuring, yet firm. “And I do appreciate the thought, but I can stand up for myself.” I wonder if it’s Daenerys I’m trying to convince of that, or myself. Maybe if I say it enough times I’ll actually start to believe it. “I know I should have tried harder to tell you at the time, though, and I’m sorry about that. I just…” I sigh. “I don’t always deal well with conflict.” And isn’t that an understatement and a half? “My natural tendency is to freeze.” Some uncharacteristic scrap of stubbornness makes me add: “But I am getting better.” I give her a rueful smile. “Even though it doesn’t always seem like it.”

“You’re much better at it now than you were when we met,” she says, touching me lightly on the hand. The sudden (all too brief) warmth of her skin on mine startles me so much that it takes me a moment to realise that she’s still talking. “Next time, I’ll pay more attention when you try to tell me something.” She smiles ruefully. “And I’ll make sure you actually *want* my help before I barge in guns blazing.”

Next time?

The thought makes me feel conflicted. On the one hand, she thinks I need protection. (And maybe she isn’t wrong, but nonetheless the thought makes me feel uncomfortable and helpless.) On the other, she *wants* to protect me. (And the thought that she cares about me that much makes me feel like I’m walking on air.)

I deal with my inner turmoil by the simple expedient of ignoring it; pushing it to the back of my mind to address at a later date. (Or maybe never.)

I have more important things to deal with.

Like the fact that, even though Daenerys and I are fine again (at least as far as I know), she still seems anxious. Maybe even uneasy.

“So,” she says, apropos of nothing. “Are you and Reza…?” She trails off, gesturing vaguely. When she doesn’t continue, I take a stab at her meaning.

“We’re fine again, thanks,” I say, covertly studying her face for any hints as to what’s going through her mind right now. “I called him and we talked. We went to the cinema together yesterday.” Brightening at the memory, I start to tell her about it, but she interrupts me.

“I meant, are the two of you… together?”

“What?” I stare at her for a moment, wide-eyed. “No, of course not. We’re just friends.” I shake my head. “I don’t think of him that way.” I mean, he is attractive and everything, but… no. Just, no. “We’re just friends,” I repeat. I eye Daenerys openly now, confused and slightly worried by the conflicted expression on her face. “Um, are you alright?” I ask, cautiously. “You seem a little… on edge.”

She stops walking so suddenly that I take another couple of steps before I realise I’m leaving her behind. Halting my own movement, I turn back to face her.

“Daenerys?” I say, hesitantly.

Maybe she’s not feeling well. Maybe we should skip LARP tonight and just, I don’t know, hang out or something. Watch a movie. Talk. Something.

“I don’t have many friends,” she says abruptly, her voice quiet but intense. She lifts her head to look at me and there’s something so naked and raw in her gaze that I’m torn between flinching away from it and taking her in my arms. (I do neither, of course, my feet fixed to the spot as if they’ve put down roots.) “People leave, or die, or… or I drive them away. I can be difficult sometimes. Demanding. Driven. Domineering.” She draws in a quick, rasping breath, her jaw tensing visibly. “I drive people away,” she says again, the words like a handful of broken glass.

“That’s not true,” I protest.

I want to ask her: ‘Who left? Who died?’ But this really isn’t the time for questions. What she needs right now is reassurance.

What she needs is… a friend.

I’m at her side before my brain even registers that I’m moving, impatiently shoving my satchel out of the way so I can put my arms around her and hold her close. I’m half-expecting her to pull away, or to push me away, or something, but instead she leans into my embrace, curling into me and resting her head on my shoulder.

It’s almost a shock to realise that I’m taller than she is.

I mean, I knew I was, of course. I’m taller than lots of people. But it’s one thing to know it, and it’s another to *feel* it. She’s always seemed to tower over me in my thoughts, but now, holding her like this… It’s like…

(She’s so warm.)

It feels like *I’m* the protector. Like *I’m* the strong one, not the one in need of saving.

(We’re twined so tightly together that I can feel her curves pressing against my body.)

I think…

(We fit together so well.)

I think I *like* this feeling.

I stroke her back lightly, comfortingly, and she shivers a little, or maybe shudders. I don’t know. I wonder if she’s crying, but before I can ask if she’s okay she’s pulling away from me, *turning* away, wrapping her arms around middle and lowering her head; a shrinking-in and curling up that on her just looks alien and *wrong*. I can hear her breathing from here — it’s rapid and shallow, just like mine.

I try to speak, but my throat locks up, holding my voice captive. I swallow hard and try again.

“Daenerys?”

Her breathing slows and quietens. I see her shoulders rise and fall: a deep breath, followed by a long, drawn-out sigh. Before I can say anything else, she turns back to face me, taking half a step in my direction.

Close enough to touch.

(I want to reach out and…)

She seems calmer now, the look in her eyes softer.

“It is true,” she insists, her voice even again, and it takes me a moment to remember what we were talking about. “I know my own flaws, and I’ve mostly made peace with them. If being myself — rather than someone who’s easier to get along with — means I have fewer friends, then I’m fine with that.”

I wonder if that’s really true, or if that’s just what she’s told herself over and over and over again.

Knowing her, it’s probably the former.

Mostly.

“But Sansa,” she continues, her voice hitching a little as she reaches for my hand. “I couldn’t stand to lose you. As a friend.”

(*She’s* worried about losing *me*? But that’s the wrong way round! She shouldn’t- I should-)

My breath catches in my throat, my pulse thundering so loudly in my ears that I half-seriously wonder if she can hear it.

You won’t lose me, I try to tell her, but I can’t make my lips form words right now. I squeeze her hand instead, trying to communicate the message through touch. But instead of smiling, she flinches and flings my hand away as if it’s hot, as if she wasn’t even aware she was holding it.

“Asha’s going to kill me,” she mutters, somewhat incongruously.

“What does Asha have to do with anything?” I ask in bewilderment. I wonder if maybe I misheard, but Daenerys isn’t looking at me completely gone out, just shaking her head with a tiny, rueful smile.

“Nothing, really,” she says, disappointingly. “It’s not important.”

Drat! Now I want to know more than ever.

“But if it’s to do with me, with us, maybe it is,” I say, not intending to argue until the words are already out of my mouth. I can’t help marvelling, just a little, at my own daring.

“It’s not really…” Daenerys says, then grimaces. “She basically just told me I was making a hash of things, and warned me to not to drag you into my drama. I’m summarising, of course, but that’s pretty much it.”

Her gaze flicks away from mine briefly, and the fingers of her right hand — the one that just held mine — twitch once, twice, as if she wants to clench them into a fist, but doesn’t.

I frown inside. I can’t be sure, but I think maybe she isn’t telling me the truth. Not the whole truth, anyway. Which is fine, really. It was a private conversation, and she does have history with Asha. I wouldn’t expect her to share every tiny little detail. But still, something makes me ask:

“That’s all?”

Daenerys shrugs noncommittally and then suddenly gives me a wry grin.

“Well, she did say: ‘Dany, get your head out of your arse; it’s not a hat.’ Which, although funny, I did think was a *little* unfair.”

I blink. *Asha’s* watched Pitch Perfect? Huh. I suppose her using that turn of phrase could just be a coincidence, but I much prefer to believe it isn’t.

“It is a little funny,” I say, smiling back at Daenerys.

I won’t press her any further on her conversation with Asha. If she wants to tell me the rest, she’ll tell me, and that’s all there is to it.

Even if not knowing is going to drive me mad.

But I do want to ask her about the other things she said, about driving people away. I just don’t know how.

With a start, I suddenly remember that we’re standing in the middle of the street. Not a busy street, but still. Anyone could walk by. Anyone could *see*.

I feel guilty, even though we weren’t doing anything wrong.

(Have I done something wrong?)

Luckily, Daenerys disrupts that train of thought before it can really build up steam.

“Shall we get going?” she asks. “We don’t want to be late for the game. Especially after we both set off early.”

“Okay,” I say, nodding.

As we walk, I ponder everything she said — and everything she didn’t say. Something’s definitely going on with her, but I find myself reluctant to disturb the now-comfortable atmosphere to ask her questions she may not want to answer. Maybe I can take her aside after LARP or something. Maybe we can leave the post-LARP congregation early, or just skip it altogether. Maybe we can go to my house, or to hers.

Just the two of us.

Yes, that would probably be for the best.

“So, what did you and Reza see at the cinema?” Daenerys asks, sounding genuinely interested.

As I start to tell her all about it, I realise that I feel lighter than I have done all week, like a heavy weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Daenerys is my friend again, which means that all is right with the world.

Suddenly, I have the unshakeable feeling that things are only going to get better.

And I think…

For the first time in a long time I think, maybe…

Maybe I actually deserve ‘better.’


	17. Chapter 17

“Alright,” calls Karen, one of the GMs. “Briefing time. Players, please gather outside. Monsters, huddle over here with me.”

Daenerys and I join the group clustering around Karen, who’s apparently on monster-herding duty tonight. I’m going to miss playing Alanna, but we all have to take turns playing the opposition. It’s only fair. Before Karen can begin briefing us on tonight’s plot, though, another GM, Paul, hurries over to us.

“Hang on a sec, Karen. Daenerys, would you mind playing tonight instead of monstering? No spoilers or anything, but I really think this would be a good adventure for Nymeria.”

Karen looks thoughtful for a moment, then grins in a way that can only be described as a perfect expression of pure, unadulterated evil.

“That’s a very good point.” She waves a hand vaguely in Daenerys’ direction. “Go on, Dany. Go, flee.”

Daenerys hesitates, flicking her gaze towards me for some reason. “Are you sure? I’m supposed to be monstering tonight. I’ve played quite a bit lately.”

“There’s always next time,” Paul says impatiently.

“This is the last game of the year,” points out Daenerys. And I don’t even have half of my costume for playing Nymeria.”

Doesn’t she want to play her character? I’d jump at the chance to play Alanna tonight, but no one’s asking me. Although, I suppose it wouldn’t be as much fun without Nymeria by her side. The two of them do seem to bounce off each other pretty well.

And, I suppose, seeing as Jorah, Stan and Daario are also monstering this evening — and Missandei is working a shift at Hot Coffee — Nymeria isn’t going to have her usual band of merry men plus one to back her up.

Maybe that’s why Daenerys is being recalcitrant.

“You can make up for it next term,” Karen says. “And your costume’s fine. Now, stop fussing and go with Paul so we can get this show on the road.”

Daenerys smiles wryly. “Well, if you insist,” she says in a droll tone.

Karen grins back at her. “I really do!”

Daenerys gives me a little wave — I wave back — and she heads off outside with Paul. Maybe I am a little disappointed that Alanna and Nymeria won’t be adventuring together tonight (and I won’t get to spend much time with Daenerys), but only a little bit. There’ll be plenty of other adventures for them to share.

(And it’s only for a few hours. I’m sure I can stand to be apart from her for that long.)

I turn my attention to Karen, but she’s only a minute or so into the scenario outline when she’s interrupted once more.

“Sorry I’m late,” says a low, musical voice. “Getting here took a little longer than I thought it would. Paul told me you’d be able to find something for me to do this evening. I hope that’s alright.”

I turn to look at the speaker, and find myself staring into a pair of sparkling blue eyes. (Not as blue as Daenerys’ eyes, a little voice whispers at the back of my mind. Even so, there’s something about them; something… compelling.)

“It’s Margaery, isn’t it?” Karen’s voice jolts me out of my inexplicable daze and back into the real world. My cheeks flush with embarrassed self-consciousness as I hope desperately that no one noticed me staring.

“That’s right,” she says, and I’m probably just imagining it, but I could almost swear that her gaze lingers on me briefly before she turns her full attention to Karen. “Margaery Tyrell.”

I know more words are exchanged between them, but I’m far too busy reeling from the shock of that revelation to actually register what they are.

This beautiful, self-assured woman is Loras’ younger sister?

I don’t know what exactly I was expecting when he said she was coming to visit, but this… this isn’t it.

I try to clamp down on my ridiculous overreaction before someone notices me acting like a total space cadet. Even so, I can’t help studying Margaery covertly to try and find a family resemblance.

(And because, for some reason, I just can’t seem to tear my gaze away from her.)

Her hair is a cascade of rich chestnut waves, shiny and soft-looking in a way that almost begs to have someone run their fingers through it. Her face is aristocratic, delicately-featured and with cheekbones to kill for. Those startling eyes of hers sit above a pert, upturned nose and soft lips that seem especially made for smiles (or for kisses).

I can’t help wondering if all of the Tyrells are as attractive as Loras and Margaery. If so, that family must have very good genes. Very good genes indeed.

With a start, I realise that Karen has started the briefing. I give myself a mental shake.

Time to stop wool-gathering and pay attention to what’s important.

 

* * * * *

 

“Any questions?” Karen asks, once she’s finished briefing us. There’s some murmuring and muttering, but no one speaks up. “Good,” she says, nodding. “Let’s head for the courtyard on the opposite side of the lake. That’s a good place to set up the first encounter.”

With a general chorus of assent (and, despite the fact that it’s really not that far, a few groans about having to go *all* the way over there), we head out. I notice that some of the older students greet Margaery with familiarity. I guess this isn’t the first time she’s come to a LARP session while she’s up here visiting her brother.

(It’s awfully brave of her. I don’t think I could have done something like that while I was at school. I’m almost surprised Loras isn’t here with her, though.)

(Maybe he’s taking advantage of the opportunity to spend some time with Renly.)

I’m just plucking up my courage to introduce myself to Margaery — just like everyone else who doesn’t already know her, apparently — when Karen calls my name.

“Yes?” I say, walking over to her.

“I’ve just had an *interesting* thought,” she says, grinning in a way that suggests bad things are in store for the player characters. And possibly for me. “How would you feel about playing Alanna during the climax of tonight’s little escapade?”

I narrow my eyes at her.

“What’s the catch?” I ask, suspiciously.

She laughs. “I see *you’ve* been paying attention. I think you might actually like this, though…”

As she explains, my wariness turns into interest, and then enthusiasm. Alanna would *totally* mess around with mysterious, powerful, *fascinating* eldritch forces far beyond mortal ken. It’s kind of what she does. And she’s arrogant enough that I can definitely see her managing to get herself in trouble the way Karen suggests.

This will certainly be an interesting roleplaying challenge, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing.

No, not a bad thing at all.

“So, what do you think?” Karen finishes. “Are you up for a bit of McGuffining?”

I nod. “Sure!”

“Great!” She rubs her hands together, laughing so maniacally that the others turn to look at us. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that someone so tiny and… and *cute* (not that I would ever use that descriptor to her face) can be so loud and scary.

“That sounded ominous,” murmurs Margaery, gliding gracefully over to join us.

(She moves like a dancer.)

“Just plotting evilly, don’t mind me,” Karen says. “You lot go on ahead and start setting up for the first encounter. I just need to go and have a quick word with the other GMs.” Turning around so quickly that it makes me start a little, she fixes me with a fierce glower. “Don’t tell them *anything*, you understand? I want that particular joy all for myself.”

“I won’t,” I quickly assure her.

“Good.”

With that, she turns and jogs back along the footpath, leaving me to face the rest of the group’s curiosity all by myself.

Oh, great.

“She’s going brief us all herself,” I tell them, shrugging to show the matter is out of my hands.

“Is there not anything you can give us?” Daario wheedles, giving me one of his most persuasive smiles.

“No, sorry,” I say, not sounding sorry in the slightest. “I like my kneecaps right where they are, thank you very much.”

“Ah well,” he says, sighing dramatically. “I suppose we should keep moving. We don’t want the players to get there ahead of us. Karen would… not be pleased.”

There’s a general murmur of agreement, and we set off again, picking up the pace a little bit. I find myself walking next to Margaery, so before nervousness can overtake me (again), I turn my head to give her what I hope is a friendly smile.

“Hi,” I say, sounding a little shyer than I’d like. “I’m Sansa.”

“I know,” she says, looking me up and down with what I think is approval. “I’ve heard so much about you that I almost feel as if I know you already.”

I blink in surprise.

“All good, I hope,” I find myself saying, too relieved that I haven’t just frozen in shock to even care all that much that my voice seems to have risen half an octave.

She’s heard about me? From Loras, I suppose. But why? And what on earth can he have said?

She laughs softly; a musical sound that for some reason makes me think of candlelight and whispered secrets.

“Nothing but the best,” she says reassuringly. “I’m Margaery, Loras’ sister.”

I manage to resist the urge to tell her I know who *she* is, too. She holds out a hand, but not in the usual position for shaking. It’s almost like she’s a princess presenting it to a prince or a knight or something.

(I have the sudden, bizarre urge to sweep it to my lips and kiss it like I *am* a knight of old, but I thankfully manage to shove that far, far away and bury it deep. Which is definitely for the best, because I can’t even imagine how utterly, totally *mortifying* that would be. What was I even *thinking*? Clearly I’m more flustered than I thought.)

(Pull yourself together, Sansa!)

(I do *not* want Loras’ sister to think I’m some kind of freak or something.)

“It’s nice to meet you,” I say, tentatively — and awkwardly — shaking her outstretched hand.

(Her skin is so smooth and soft. It’s all I can do not to trail my fingers over her hand when I let it go.)

“It’s lovely to meet you too,” she replies. Her smile widens, and before I can so much as blink, she links her arm through mine so that we’re walking side by side and close together. “I think we’re going to become great friends.”

“I like making new friends,” I say, my voice sounding strange and squeaky to my own ears.

“Good,” she says, laughing again. “So do I.”

I glance over at her to find her looking at me, one eyebrow arched and a faint smile on her lips. It feels a little like… like we’re sharing some secret joke known only to the two of us. (It’s oddly… intimate.) Suddenly uncomfortable, I tear my gaze away from hers, lowering my eyes as if to watch my step on the path.

Except-

Except the arc of my gaze is arrested and held by…

I mean, she’s really not dressed for the weather or the time of year. Her dress is *very* low-cut, and from this angle I can’t help seeing directly down…

I mean, there’s a *lot* of exposed skin there, and…

And…

And…

Isn’t she *cold*?

(If her neckline was a little bit lower, I think I’d be able to tell.)

My whole face feels like it’s on fire, and I have the horrible feeling that every bit of exposed skin from the roots of my hair all the way down to my neckline (which is much, *much* higher than the one on her dress, by the way) must be glowing a bright, brilliant scarlet.

For some reason, I’m finding it rather difficult to catch my breath.

It suddenly strikes me that she might think I’m staring right at her cleavage.

(I’m totally staring. I can’t… I just can’t help it.)

(Apropos of nothing, I find myself thinking back to when I helped Daenerys dye her hair.)

(Even stranger, that makes me remember Jeyne Poole, my best friend from school. An image springs to mind, as clear as day, as clear as if she were standing here before me right now. Both of us in her little bedroom, getting ready for a night on the town.) 

(Back when I actually went out on the town. Back before I became Sansa the shut-in.)

(Realising I could see her reflected in the mirror as she adjusted the fit of her push-up bra.)

(Knowing I should politely avert my gaze, but not being able to.)

With what feels like a supreme effort of will, I wrench my eyes away from Margaery’s décolletage and focus on watching my feet instead.

Much safer.

My cheeks are burning so much (with mortification; not for any other reason) that I’m not sure they’re ever going to cool down.

*Please* let them cool down sometime soon. I don’t want my face to be lit up like a beacon all night.

Frantically, I rack my brains for something innocuous to say.

“I, um, I didn’t know you were coming to LARP as well as re-enactment,” I say, wincing inside at the decidedly manic tone of my voice. “People here don’t generally seem to do both.”

“I suppose I’m just…” She trails off as if searching for just the right word, and despite my firm resolution to keep my eyes averted, I find them drifting inexorably towards her again. She doesn’t help me in the slightest by stepping in so close that I can almost feel her breath against my face. “Flexible,” she finally decides, rolling the word around on her tongue in a way that makes it sound positively… obscene.

I blush even harder.

I wouldn’t even have thought was *possible*, but apparently Margaery can take me to whole new heights of- of-

Of embarrassment.

Oh, god, I’m staring again. But at least it’s at her face this time. That’s not so-

She winks at me.

My breath catches, and the next thing I know I’m in the middle of a full-blown coughing fit. Margaery pats my back helpfully as I splutter, making soothing noises and looking concerned.

“Are you alright?” she asks, when my chest finally seems to stop spasming.

“I think so,” I croak, mopping at my streaming eyes.

“Good,” she says. Unexpectedly, she reaches up to brush tuck a stray hair or two off my face. I just about manage not to splutter again. “Now, I think we’d better speed up a little, if you can. We seem to be lagging behind…”

I nod fervently, and we quicken our pace.

I wonder if it is actually possible to die of embarrassment. I have a horrible feeling that I might be about to find out.

With Margaery around, there’s a good chance I might not survive the night.

 

* * * * *

 

“Alright, let me see,” says Karen, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “You.” She points at Margaery. “You’re playing the Witch-Queen Amara. Alright?”

“I think I can manage that.” Margaery’s tone is grave, but her eyes are sparkling and there’s a small, wry smile on her lips. It makes her look positively… wicked.

Which, I suppose, is entirely appropriate.

Turning on her heel, Karen points at me next.

“You know what you’re doing?”

I nod. “Stay behind the guards until the dramatic reveal. Protect the Witch-Queen until someone breaks the mind-control. If it looks like everyone’s going to die, break free of the spell by myself and join the players,” I recite.

Honestly, it doesn’t sound that difficult. I just hope this encounter doesn’t end up in a TPK.

“Right,” she says. “Okay, let me see… You, you and you.” Daario, Jorah and Stan, respectively. “You’re Amara’s lieutenants. That means you’re strong opponents, so use the same stats as the vampires from the last encounter.” Her pointing finger wavers a moment, then comes to rest on Daario. “You’re Amara’s personal bodyguard.” She smirks. “She strikes me as the kind of person who likes to keep pretty things around her”

“I quite agree,” says Margaery, looking Daario up and down.

He preens under her attention, sweeping an elegant bow.

“I am at your service, fair lady.”

There’s a chorus of groans from the crowd. Jorah snorts loudly, and Stan rolls his eyes. Karen just laughs. Margaery smiles, but says nothing.

“Alright,” Karen says briskly. “The rest of you are representing the undead horde. You’re only mooks, but you each get to respawn five times because we don’t have enough of you to actually make up a respectable horde. Make sure the players realise it’s a respawn and not just them failing to kill you. Dramatic death scenes are optional, but if you break the mood I will break your face. Any questions? No? Good. Then get into position.”

I follow Margaery towards Amara’s throne — actually just a stepladder pushed up against a waist-high wall, but you’d never know it. It’s amazing what you can do with some cloth, part of a tent frame and a few props.

Margaery pauses before the construction, half-turning to trail her gaze over me. Her lips quirk in a tiny smile.

“Pretty things, indeed,” she murmurs. As I gape at her, wondering what on earth she means, she turns to her lieutenants and speaks in a more conversational tone. “Would one of you mind giving me a hand? I’m not sure how stable these steps are going to be on the flagstones.”

“Allow me,” says Daario, gliding forward to offer his hand. “I am your bodyguard, after all. I should start getting into character.”

“Thank you,” she says, laughing a little. With Daario’s help, she ascends and takes her seat without incident.

Picking up my jaw and doing my best to gather together my scattered wits, I tuck myself into a little nook just behind Jorah and concentrate on getting into character myself.

A minute or so later, I hear voices.

“At least let me scout ahead a little,” Michael — or, rather, Adric, his character — is saying. “There could be traps.”

“We’ve tarried too long as it is,” snaps Nymeria, sounding every bit the empress-in-waiting that she apparently is. I don’t even need to see Daenerys to know that she’s striding forward with her head held high, almost daring people to try to stand in her way. “Besides, the bitch *wants* us to find her. Why else would she have left us such clear… signposts.”

On that note, the party rounds the corner, entering the Witch-Queen’s throne room.

(My heart leaps a little in my chest. Even without her full costume, Daenerys looks utterly magnificent. As Nymeria. Fire in her eyes, white hair streaming out behind her like a banner, she moves like a stalking tiger; all dangerous grace and coiled power.)

(She’s breath-taking.)

She comes to a halt just before she runs into the bodyguards, the rest of the party falling in warily behind her as she raises her sword to point at Amara.

“You are sitting in my seat,” she growls.

Amara laughs, the sound light, amused and somehow completely and utterly chilling.

(I would never have guessed that Margaery could sound so menacing.)

“Is that so?” she purrs, completely unfazed by Nymeria’s obvious fury. “But it suits *me* so much better.”

“You killed my parents.”

I sneak a glance up at Amara, who smirks as she answers. “I had them killed,” she corrects gently. “Other hands actually did the deed. But yes, I caused it to happen.”

“You desecrated a temple of the Lady Justice. Your abominations slaughtered its inhabitants as they lay sleeping!”

“Some of those acolytes were little more than children,” breaks in Caliban, his voice dripping with anger and disgust.

(I’m not actually sure if Caliban is his real name or his character name — everyone seems to call him Cal both in and out of character. I recall that he used to be a priest of the Lady of Justice. Is that massacre the reason why he left to become a mercenary?)

Other people murmur in agreement, some calling their own reasons for being here. It seems that almost everyone in this party has an axe to grind with the Witch-Queen.

(Aside from generally not wanting the world to be overrun by her undead hordes, of course.)

After a minute or two of this, Amara sighs loudly.

“Your outrage grows… tiresome,” she drawls.

“Then maybe you should have thought about that before you did all those things!” Nymeria yells. “Before you set about taking everything I ever had!”

“Oh?” Amara sits up straight, an icy little smile on her face as she looks Nymeria dead in the eyes. (No pun intended.) Her voice is sweetly poisonous as she goes on to say: “What is it that I’ve taken from you?”

“You took my parents, you took my home, you took my throne. You’ve tried to take my life.” Nymeria lowers her voice, the near-whisper somehow more threatening than the loudest shout. “Well, here I am. You want my life so badly, come and take it.”

I feel a shiver travel the whole length of my spine.

Adventurers ready their weapons, their faces set and grim. Zombies loom menacingly. This is it, I can tell. Any moment now, someone will cry battle and let slip the dire-wolves of war.

(It’ll probably be Nymeria. She’s always been aggressive like that. Well, maybe aggressive is a little harsh. Pro-active, maybe.)

(Just like Daenerys herself.)

Strangely, Amara starts laughing.

“You missed one,” she trills, sounding utterly delighted with herself and with the world in general.

“What,” Nymeria grinds out.

“Those things of yours I’ve taken.” Amara’s voice is almost a purr, silken and smooth, caressing my ears. “You missed one.” Eyes still fixed on Nymeria, she lifts a hand and beckons languidly in my direction. “Step forward, my precious one. Let her get a good look at you.”

(That’s my cue.)

I move forward to stand before my new queen’s throne, gazing up at her with rapt adoration.

(It’s a lot easier to do that than I might have thought. I guess I’m getting the hang of this roleplaying lark. Dimly, I’m aware of Karen describing Alanna’s appearance to the players. I can’t quite see them well enough from this angle to determine how they’re reacting.)

“Let. Her. Go.” Nymeria says in a voice as hard as iron.

“Where would be the fun in that?” Amara murmurs. She reaches down to lightly rest her fingers on my cheek.

(Which we didn’t discuss at all beforehand but I don’t actually mind. Anyway, it seems to fit the character.)

(Just as it somehow seems right to lean into the contact.)

I hear a susurrus of murmurs start up among the adventurers; a sotto voce argument about how they should proceed. The overwhelming majority seem to be in favour of attacking as planned and just hoping I don’t get caught in the cross-fire.

(Which I can completely understand but, well… Do they really think it’s going to be that simple?)

Nymeria is strangely silent.

“Alanna,” Amara says sweetly.

“Yes, my queen?”

“Why don’t you greet your… *friend*.”

(Uh oh. I know this cue.)

I curtsey to Amara and then turn to face Nymeria, bringing my hand up to point right at her.

“By my will, the aether shall strike you down!” I call out, pleased by the way my voice seems to ring out commandingly. In a more normal tone, I add: “Lightning bolt four, Nymeria.”

Nymeria staggers a little, as if she’s just been hit by a blast of electricity. My heart is in my mouth, but when she looks up she’s wearing a fierce smile.

“Lightning is the spear of Lady Justice,” she says, her voice dripping with contempt as she looks Amara directly in the eyes. “Did you really think she’d let one of her chosen warriors be struck down by her favoured weapon?”

(Phew. I’d forgotten Nymeria had electricity resistance. So *that’s* why Karen told me to start with a lightning bolt.)

“You talk too much,” Amara says, sounding thoroughly bored. “Guards. Soldiers. *Dear* Alanna. Please take care of our guests.”

And, with that, battle is joined.

Things get confusing for a little while. The battlefield is a sea of motion, people swinging weapons, casting spells — or, in some cases, both — and just generally running around like mad things. Feeling like a traitor of the worst order, I fling my own spells at my former comrades in arms, wincing inside with every blast and bolt.

(As I do, I keep asking myself if it’s time yet, if I’ve done enough damage to them, if things are looking dire enough for me to reclaim my loyalty.)

(Almost… Almost…)

Suddenly, I find myself face to face with Nymeria herself, my gaze snapping up to meet hers with an almost palpable jolt. It makes me hesitate for the barest instant, and she seizes her chance. Stepping in close, she presses something cold against my forehead and starts chanting. Calling on her patron goddess?

Amara’s compulsion leaves me too foggy to really pay attention.

(I’m too distracted by the way Daenerys’ nearness makes me think back to our earlier embrace.)

(I remember the feel of her body pressed up against mine.)

I start paying attention just in time to hear Daenerys say: “Mental fortitude plus five.”

(Good enough!)

I stagger theatrically, shaking my head and looking around as if wondering where I am and how I got here.

“Nymeria?” I ask. “What-” I bite the question off, narrowing my eyes. “The Witch-Queen.” I’m not asking a question. “Then it was not a nightmare.”

“Alas not,” Nymeria murmurs, looking relieved. “I have not the words to express how glad I am to have you by my side once more. Do you feel able to join this fight? I know you have suffered greatly, but-”

I start talking before she even finishes her sentence, my voice an unfamiliar, rage-filled snarl.

“Let’s *burn* that bitch.”

 

* * * * *

 

“And let’s have a round of applause for an outstanding performance by our impromptu Witch-Queen, Margaery.”

I’m clapping almost before Karen finishes speaking. The applause is well-deserved. Margaery really did make a scarily convincing evil sorceress.

I wish I was that good a role-player.

“Thank you,” says Margaery, smiling. Her eyes find mine, and she inclines her head slightly. “I think Sansa deserves a hand, too.” Her smile turns wry. “I don’t know about the rest of you, but when I saw her stalking towards me like the wrath of god, I thought she was absolutely *terrifying*.”

“Hear, hear!” calls Daario, applauding enthusiastically.

Much to my surprise, people actually join in.

I don’t think anyone’s *ever* described me as terrifying before. I’m not sure what to make of it. I guess it means think I did a good job playing my character? Which I’m pleased about, of course. But I’m also confused.

“Um, thanks,” I say, blushing.

When in doubt, go with politeness. I am, after all, my mother’s daughter.

Terrifying or not (my money’s still on not, no matter what anyone says), I’m still relieved when Paul steps forward to talk about the plans for next year, taking the group’s attention away from me.

(I guess I’m still not completely comfortable in in the spotlight, even if I can appreciate the attraction on occasion.)

Next year. Wow. I can’t believe it’s the last week of term already. Where did the time go? Although in some ways, it feels like it’s been a lifetime.

God knows I’ve certainly changed enough for a lifetime.

“So,” says Paul. “In conclusion, next term we’ll be dealing with the fallout from the Witch-Queen’s defeat.” He smirks. “And believe me, there *will* be fallout. But all that’s left to say for now is merry Christmas and a happy new year!”

With that, the crowd drifts apart on a general tide of good wishes and anticipation, both in equal measure. For myself, I’m half-wishing it was next year already. I can’t wait to see how the events of tonight’s adventure will affect Alanna. I actually find myself actually wanting to write about her, just to get deeper into her head.

Maybe I will.

And then there’s Nymeria.

Defeating her nemesis *and* reclaiming her family’s ancestral palace in one fell swoop? That’s got to mean some changes. Of course, she’s still got some way to go before reclaiming her empire, but that’s probably for the best. Somehow, I don’t think an empress would really be viable as a player character, and I think Alanna — and I — would miss her.

As if my thoughts have summoned her, Daenerys drifts over to my side.

“You were magnificent in that last encounter,” she murmurs, smiling.

“Thanks,” I say, smiling back at her. “So were you.”

We stand there for a moment in comfortable silence. I realise all over again how glad I am that she’s my friend. I think about mentioning my idea about skipping the post-LARP gathering and just hanging out together — people are already starting to argue about where to go — but I find myself strangely reluctant to speak. She seems so much calmer than she was earlier, so much happier.

I’m not sure I want to remind her of whatever it was that was bothering her.

“No hard feelings, I hope,” says Margaery cheerfully, completely derailing my train of thought.

“Not at all,” replies Daenerys, smiling. “We got to kill the wicked witch in the end, so I’d say it all worked out for the best. Well, maybe not for you, I guess. Sorry about that.”

“It goes with the territory,” Margaery says, shrugging gracefully. “Besides, I had a lot of fun playing the evil queen.”

“I noticed,” Daenerys observes dryly. Margaery laughs again.

“You really were very good,” I say, finally managing to find my voice.

(What is it about the two of them that leaves me feeling so tongue-tied?)

“Thank you, Sansa. It’s sweet of you to say so.”

“I’m sweet *and* terrifying?” I murmur.

Margaery laughs. (She really does have a beautiful laugh.) 

“Of course! You’re a woman of many layers.” She rests a hand on my arm, looking at me through heavy-lidded eyes. “I look forward to getting to know them all,” she murmurs.

(I think my brain just blew a fuse.)

Daenerys rolls her eyes.

“I see you haven’t changed,” she says, sounding… amused?

(Mostly amused. But there’s a spark of something in her eyes that I can’t figure out.)

(Or maybe it’s just my imagination.)

“Why change, when one has already attained a state of perfection?” Margaery asks loftily, but the effect is somewhat spoiled a little when she can’t keep a straight face. Daenerys rolls her eyes again, making Margaery give up on trying to keep in her mirth. “So, what now?” she asks, laughing a little. “Are we all going to go our separate ways, or are we going to congregate somewhere? The night is still young, after all.”

“And so are you,” Daenerys says. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

Margaery pulls a face. “I’m seventeen, not seven,” she says, tartly, but then her expression shifts into something sly and wicked. She sashays slowly towards Daenerys who, to my complete and utter shock, actually backs up a step or two.

I didn’t even think Daenerys knew *how* to back down.

(Although she jumped away from me pretty sharpish after that hug earlier.)

I looks from one of them to the other, wondering if (hoping that) one of them will shed some light on what’s happening here, between them. 

Margaery draws breath to speak…

But Stan interrupts before she can say a word.

(Curses.)

“Sorry to barge in, ladies,” he says, barging in. “Sansa, would you be willing to play hostess tonight? I think Daario and Jorah may actually come to blows if we don’t settle this sometime soon.” He shoots a look of weary disgust in their general direction, then turns back to me with a hopeful expression.

I dither for a moment or two, and then mentally wave goodbye to my vague idea of suggesting that Daenerys comes over by herself.

“Okay,” I say, then narrow my eyes at Stan and add, warningly: “But I’d better not get stuck with all the clearing up this time. Again.”

“Deal,” he says, grinning. “I’ll chivvy those two idiots into doing it before we leave. Serves them bloody right for bothering me with all their shenanigans.”

“What shenanigans?” Margaery asks interestedly.

My own curiosity is certainly pricked but, disappointingly, Stan shakes his head.

“Long story. And not half as exciting as it sounds. Thanks for letting us impose on you, Sansa. You’re a lifesaver. I’m going to go and round up the others.” As he heads back over to the main group, I hear him mutter to himself: “Just like herding cats…”

Impulsively, I turn to Margaery.

“Do you want to join us? We’re just going to hang around and chat for a bit, nothing massively exciting, but you’re more than welcome to come along. It’s only a ten minute walk or so from here.”

She beams at me. “I’d love to, thank you. Lead the way.”

Just as she did earlier, she threads her arm through mine. This time, though, I resolve to be more careful about where I look.

(I more or less manage it.)

“You’re coming, aren’t you?” I ask Daenerys.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” she murmurs.

We set off at a leisurely stroll, Margaery and I walking arm in arm with Daenerys striding along beside us.

It’s all very companionable and civilised.

(So why is my heart pounding like I’m running for my life?)

Even though I’ve only just met Margaery, I like her a lot. I think she and I really could become friends. Like me and Daenerys.

(Being so close to her — to either of them, or both — makes my stomach flutter with something that I want to call unease. I want to call it that, but it isn’t. Not really. It’s something else.)

And, unless I’m completely mistaken, she and Daenerys also seem to like each other.

(Although there’s a tension between them that I don’t really understand.)

I’m almost surprised to realise how strongly I’m looking forward to spending time with them.

(Anticipation coils inside me like the spring.)

I think this is going to be fun.


	18. Chapter 18

“Farmers?” I say, staring at Margaery in disbelief. I try to picture her and Loras ploughing fields or milking cows or performing some other farm-related task, but my imagination simply isn’t up to the challenge.

(Maybe it’s just been short-circuited by the mental image of Margaery in an old-fashioned milkmaid’s outfit.)

“Farmers,” she says, nodding. “Generations of them.” Noticing my expression, she throws back her head and laughs, exposing the length of her smooth, white throat. (I bet that’s not the only expanse of skin exposed, but I make sure to keep my eyes up, focused on her face.) “If only you could see your expression right now,” she murmurs, gently patting my hand. “Don’t I seem like a farmer’s daughter to you?”

“More like a lady,” I answer without thinking, then flush and look down at my hands.

I’m such a dork sometimes.

“That’s so sweet of you,” she says, sounding amused.

Her thumb traces circles on the back of my hand before she releases it.

(A long, slow shiver runs all the way down my spine.)

(Perhaps I’m cold.)

“But no,” she continues. “My family are farming stock through and through. Not that they till the land with their own fair hands or anything like that. The Tyrells have always been more towards the ‘gentleman farmer’ end of the spectrum. Nowadays, that mostly translates into agricultural management. We own a few farms and orchards in the south-east, primarily Kent.” She shrugs, smiling modestly. “You know: the garden of England.”

“Not anymore.” The words slip out before I can stop them.

“Excuse me?” Margaery says, raising an eyebrow at me. I’m vaguely aware of Daenerys chuckling quietly in the background.

“Well, um, it lost that title? A few years ago. To north Yorkshire.” I’m torn between northern pride and horror at the words coming out of my mouth.

Daenerys is laughing openly now, not even trying to hide it. Margaery purses her lips, giving me a look like she doesn’t quite know what to make of me.

“That’s debatable,” she murmurs. “Anyway, Kent definitely holds the title now.”

“But-“

“Anyway,” she says firmly. “Let’s not get side-tracked by trivia. What about you? What does your family do?”

I can almost hear Rob’s voice muttering uncomplimentary things about ‘soft southerners,’ but then I make the mistake of looking down again and…

Um…

Her skin does look soft, and smooth, and…

But I don’t think that’s what Rob meant.

What were we talking about again?

“Um,” I temporise.

“Sansa’s the daughter of a baron,” Daenerys says helpfully, returning with our drinks.

Oh, right. My family.

“Really?” Margaery says, her eyes wide.

I nod, accepting the glass Daenerys hands to me with a murmur of thanks.

“It’s not as exciting as it sounds,” I tell Margaery, who’s looking at me with a slightly awe-struck expression. Over her shoulder, I see Daenerys roll her eyes.

Although her next words are directed to Margaery, the smile that graces Daenerys’ lips now is all for me.

(It feels like we’re sharing a secret.)

“Close your mouth, Margaery, you’ll catch flies.”

Quick as a flash, Margaery turns to face her, her spine as stiff and straight as a ruler. “I’ll thank you not to tell me what to do with my mouth,” she says pertly. I can’t see her expression from this angle, but now it’s Daenerys’ eyes that widen as Margaery slides her fingers over Daenerys’ hand in the course of retrieving her own drink. In a low, breathy voice, she continues: “Unless you’re reconsidering your previous position…”

Huh?

Okay, what am I missing here? Because there’s definitely *something* going on. If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say they were flirting…

Wait.

*Are* they flirting?

(But Margaery’s been talking to me in that same tone of voice…)

Daenerys swallows, then levels a flat look at Margaery.

“Stop it,” she says.

“Stop what?” Margaery says, all innocence. She takes a drink, looking at Daenerys over the rim of her glass.

“You know what,” Daenerys replies sternly.

“You’re no fun,” Margaery says, pouting a little. “This isn’t even real wine!”

“I don’t have any wine, sorry,” I say, perhaps a trifle defensively. “This is Schloer.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry.” she says to me, smiling. “I’m just teasing.”

“Of course you are,” mutters Daenerys.

Margaery flicks her hand dismissively in Daenerys’ direction, but her attention is now fixed firmly on me. I find myself swallowing hard as she sets her glass aside and shifts on the sofa, so close to me now that our knees touch. “Now,” she says, her eyes sparkling eagerly. “You have to tell me *all* about it. I insist.”

“Um…” I shift mental gears with what feels like it should be an audible grinding sound. “There’s not really that much to tell, but okay.”

As I give her the abbreviated version of my background, I can’t help noting that she interrupts *much* less than Ygritte did. She actually leans forward a little, her expression rapt, her eyes focused intently on me.

I’m not used to being the sole focus of someone’s attention like this.

(Although Daenerys sometimes does the same thing.)

It makes me feels a little like I’m the only person in the world.

(It makes me feel… strange. Uncomfortable, maybe.)

“I’d love to see Winterfell sometime,” Margaery breathes, when I finally stumble to a halt. She sets her glass aside. “I bet it’s amazing.”

“It’s cold, is what it is,” I say. “And falling down in places. Parts of it seem to be perpetually under construction.”

“Oh, don’t spoil my romantic fantasy,” she says teasingly. Sweeping up one of my hands in both of hers, she clutches it tightly, gazing up at me with imploring eyes. “And do please say you’ll let me visit. I’ll behave myself, honestly.” She half-lowers her eyelids, looking at me through her long, lush lashes. “I can be *very* good when I really try.”

Someone makes the most peculiar noise. For a moment I think it’s me, but then I realise it came from Daenerys’ direction.

I think that, for a moment, I’d actually forgotten she was there.

(That thought makes me feel oddly like I’ve betrayed her somehow.)

(My subconscious doesn’t half come up with some peculiar notions sometimes.)

I try to speak, but my throat seems to have gone very dry all of a sudden. I give myself a mental shake, half-drain my glass and try again.

“Of course you can visit sometime,” I say. Remembering my manners, I look up over Margaery’s head to give Daenerys a small smile. “You’re more than welcome to come too. Um, if you want to, that is.”

She starts to say something, but Margaery suddenly drops my hand and flings her arms around me, pulling me into a surprisingly firm hug.

(I may possibly squeak a little in surprise.)

“Thank you, Sansa,” she murmurs, her breath tickling my ear. “I’ll look forward to it.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, my voice sounding a little strangled.

To my relief (and disappointment), she lets me go after a few moment, sitting back and smoothing down her dress. I take the opportunity to try to remember how to breathe.

“So, just out of curiosity,” she asks, looking like a troubling thought has just struck her. “Just how dilapidated *is* your home? It’s not likely to fall on our heads while we’re there, is it?”

I laugh, relieved at having something simple to answer.

“Not at all,” I reassure her, turning a little to include Daenerys in my reply. “I may have been exaggerating a little for comic effect. One or two of the outbuildings are considered unsafe, but we won’t be going in there. The main house is fine, more or less. It mostly just needs some maintenance.” I sigh. “Unfortunately, with money being what it is, ‘routine maintenance measures’ keeps getting put off until they practically become ‘emergency repairs’. Running an estate is an expensive business.”

“Is that why your brother wants to convert part of it into a retreat?” Daenerys’ question startles me a little. I’d almost forgotten she was here.

“Yes,” I say, looking up at her over Margaery’s head. “We get some income from tourism and from selling things we produce on the estate — mostly food and drink, but also stuff like metalwork and art.” Dad was always proud of our forge, even sometimes working it himself. I think every one of us has at least one item he made there. “We also occasionally lease part of the property out for filming. Unfortunately it never seems to be enough. It doesn’t help that we’re not really one of the more popular tourist destinations.”

“What about the National Trust?” Margaery asks, looking more interested than I would have thought she’d be. “Can’t they help with the upkeep?”

“Only if we sell it to them, which would… not be ideal.” And that’s the understatement of the century. “Anyway,” I say, suddenly feeling a little self-conscious. “You shouldn’t get me rambling on about this kind of thing. I’d end up boring you senseless, which would make me a horrible hostess.”

Margaery smiles at me.

“Oh, I couldn’t imagine that at all,” she says. “You’re a wonderful hostess. You take *very* good care of your guests.” Twisting around, so she can see Daenerys, she adds: “Wouldn’t you agree?”

I’m a little startled to suddenly find myself *really* wanting to know the answer to that question.

(Daenerys seems a little bit… overwhelmed? to have us both looking at her so intently.)

Unfortunately, it seems that now is not the time.

“Sansa,” calls Stan, curiosity-blocking me for the *second* time tonight. “Where do you keep your bin bags?”

“Um, in the kitchen, under the-“ I break off, getting to my feet. “Never mind, it’s easier if I come and show you.”

Most people have left already, but Stan is sticking by his promise to make Daario and Jorah do the clearing up. I do appreciate it, really. It will be a relief not to have to face it tomorrow morning.

But is it *so* wrong of me to wish that his timing was a little better?

Daario and Jorah are arguing again, Stan riding herd on them like a weary teacher or parent. But I have to admit that I’m not really paying attention to them. The bulk of my focus is back in the living room, where my brief, surreptitious glances show me that Margaery and Daenerys seem to be having a *very* intense discussion.

I wonder what they’re talking about.

Whatever it is, it seems to involve a lot of Margaery leaning in, Margaery tilting her head coquettishly, Margaery placing her hand lightly on Daenerys’ knee-

Where are those darn bin bags?!

Finally locating the offending items — someone had buried them under a pile of cleaning stuff — I unceremoniously shove them at the terrible twosome with a brusque (for me): “Here you go.” Of course I then follow up with: “Thanks for clearing up. I appreciate it.” Because, even desperately curious to know what’s going on back there, I’m still myself. But I definitely don’t have the patience to linger for Daario’s incessant flirting and Jorah’s… Jorah-ness, so I give them a smile and tell them I’ll get out of their way.

When I duck back in the living room, Daenerys is standing, and Margaery is reclining on the sofa, looking rather like the cat that caught the canary. Daenerys seems distinctly… flustered.

*Something* important must have just happened, but I guess I missed it.

Whatever it was.

Daenerys smiles somewhat distractedly at me.

“Sorry to be a party pooper, but I think I’m going to head off sometime soon. I have things to do tomorrow, and I was hoping to get an early start.”

I feel a pang of disappointment.

“Would you like a coffee before you go?” I hear myself saying. “Or a hot chocolate or something? It is pretty nippy out there. You might need something to keep you warm.”

“Don’t we all?” Margaery murmurs, smirking a little. Daenerys shoots her a quelling look, which seems to have precisely zero effect on her.

“I would like a coffee, I suppose,” Daenerys says slowly, her gaze softening as she turns back to me.

“And I’d love a hot chocolate,” Margaery pipes up. “Thanks, Sansa.”

“Yes,” says Daenerys. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

An awkward silence falls as we wait for the guys to finish with the clearing up. I know I should, technically, offer to make them drinks as well. I normally would. It would certainly be the polite thing to do.

But…

But I don’t want to.

So I don’t.

(I still feel guilty, of course, but not enough to make me change my mind.)

“Okay, done,” Stan announces. “Do you want to check to see if they’ve done a good enough job of it?”

“I’m sure it’s fine,” I say, smiling at all three of them. “Thank you, all of you, for your help.”

“You’re welcome,” says Daario, matching (and far exceeding) my smile with one of his own.

Jorah simply nods.

“Time I was heading off,” he says gruffly. (I don’t think he’s actually trying to be abrasive. I think it’s just his way.) Turning to Daenerys, he asks: “Are you leaving soon? I could walk you home if you want.”

“I’m staying for a little while longer,” she says. “But thanks for the offer.”

“Alas, I also should be going,” Daario proclaims, looking genuinely regretful. (Strangely, his oleaginous manner puts my teeth on edge almost as much as Jorah’s gruffness did just now. What on earth is wrong with me this evening? I swear they never used to bother me this much before.)

“I’ll say goodnight as well,” says Stan. “And merry Christmas!”

There’s a general exchange of holiday wishes and goodbyes, and then it’s just the three of us.

Just Daenerys, Margaery and me.

(And my stomach a-flutter with butterflies.)

“I’ll get those drinks started,” I say, brightly. “Any special requests?”

After telling me what they want, the two of them join me in the kitchen as I prepare the drinks. Margaery watches my technique with a frankly appraising look.

“You’re really good with your hands,” she says.

“I’m a part-time barista,” I tell her. “I’ve had a lot of practice.” Measuring out just the *right* amount of peppermint syrup — I expanded my selection a little once I started entertaining (once Daenerys started coming round on a semi-regular basis) — I glance briefly over in Daenerys’ direction with a smile. “It’s actually how I met Daenerys.”

“I was being a difficult customer,” Daenerys says, her eyes sparkling with humour.

“I wouldn’t say *difficult* exactly,” I protest, but then amend it to: “Well, maybe a *little* difficult.” I smile to take the sting out of the correction, but Daenerys doesn’t seem to be offended.

“Daenerys being demanding. There’s a shocker,” says Margaery, not sounding shocked in the slightest. Daenerys shoots her a glare. She blows a kiss in return.

I blush.

I don’t even know *why* I’m blushing.

“I suppose you’d know all about demanding,” Daenerys says, and I can’t tell if she sounds amused or irritated.

Maybe a little of both.

I decide to focus on making the drinks and do my best to ignore the verbal fencing match going on around me.

Well, maybe not ignore, per se. I’m practically hanging on every word.

More like, stay out of it.

The last thing I want to do is get caught between Daenerys and Margaery. Being caught between Daenerys and *Asha* was bad enough.

I just hope they don’t decide to trade verbal fencing for the real thing.

Fortunately, by the time I finish the drinks, they seem to have reached a truce of sorts. We re-occupy the living room, silence reigning for a few moments as we settle into our chosen seats — Margaery sprawling on one sofa like a cat, me perched neatly on the other and Daenerys claiming a chair — and sip at our drinks.

“Mmm,” Margaery sighs, the low, pleased sound like velvet on my ears. “This is really good, Sansa. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, pleased by her obvious appreciation. “But you should come by my coffee shop sometime if you really want to see what I can do.”

“Maybe I will,” she says, giving me a slightly lopsided smile.

I blush.

I hope she doesn’t think I’m being arrogant.

“So, um, do you come up to visit Loras often?” I ask, when the silence seems to stretch just a little too long for comfort.

(I wonder which cat’s gotten Daenerys’ tongue. She’s not normally so quiet. Although maybe it’s better than when she was arguing with Margaery. Maybe. I’m still not entirely certain what they were arguing about.)

“Reasonably often,” she says. “He’s my favourite brother, and I miss him terribly. He hardly ever seems to come home anymore.” She pouts a little, and I wonder what the story is there. Not that it’s really any of my business, but I can’t help feeling curious. “And I do like his friends,” she adds, including both me and Daenerys in her smile.

I smile, unable to help feeling pleased at the compliment. From her expression, Daenerys seems to feel less so.

“I’m not sure he’d count me as one of his friends anymore,” she says. Her tone is light, but there’s something sad in her eyes. For all her brave words earlier, I think losing friends bother her a lot more than she lets on.

“Because of that business with Asha, you mean?” For once, Margaery’s expression is completely serious, not even the faintest hint of a smile on her lips or a sparkle in her eyes. She seems almost… business-like.

Daenerys flicks a quick glance in my direction, then sits up even straighter, fixing Margaery with a challenging look.

“Yes,” she says, almost as if she’s daring Margaery to do her worst.

Margaery doesn’t rise to the bait, though, saying mildly: “Break-ups can be rough.”

(No sh… No sugar, Sherlock, mutters a little voice at the back of my mind. That little voice sounds an awful lot like Asha.)

“That’s an understatement and a half,” I mutter, and then freeze.

Oh… poot.

I didn’t mean to actually say that out loud.

Now they’re both looking at me, Daenerys with concern and Margaery with interest, and I can’t help feeling a little like a mouse that’s just managed to disturb a pair of cats.

Margaery tilts her head, considering me.

“Is that the voice of experience, Sansa? Did you break someone’s heart?”

My face flushes, but it’s more discomfort than embarrassment.

“No, nothing like that,” I say hurriedly. “I just… I was just agreeing with you in general terms.”

“Did someone break *your* heart?” Margaery asks, narrowing her eyes a little.

“Um…” My heart is racing, and it feels like the walls are closing in, like they can look beneath the surface of my skin and see…

(“It doesn’t matter what you do, you’ll always be a victim. Anyone can see it just by looking at you.”)

(No. That’s not true. Maybe it was true, once, but not anymore. I’m not that person anymore.)

“I thought you were the heartbreaker around here,” Daenerys drawls, raising her mug to Margaery in an ironic salute.

But I see the look she gives me, that little worried expression, and I know she’s purposefully drawing Margaery’s attention onto her and away from me. Away from that question. And maybe I should be annoyed that she’s protecting me again, so soon after the Reza incident, but all I feel right now is an overwhelming wave of gratitude and relief.

With a final, considering look in my direction, Margaery takes Daenerys’ bait.

“I don’t *break* hearts,” she says, smirking a little. “I just… open them a little.”

“Oh, is that what the kids are calling it these days?” Daenerys says wryly.

Margaery laughs.

They bicker back and forth for a little while, and I take the opportunity to recover my composure, which doesn’t take nearly as much effort as I thought it would. (Not nearly as much effort as it might have done, once upon a time.) I’m certainly not complaining.

By this point, the conversation-slash-verbal-sparring-match seems to have shifted into general reminiscing — that is to say, gossiping — about the Living History folks.

“I’m looking forward to tomorrow,” Margaery says, out of the blue.

“Me too,” I say. “Although,” I add with a grimace. “I’m really not sure I’m going to be able to look Don in the eye again after hearing *that* little story. Thanks *so* much for the mental image, you too. It’s only going to haunt my nightmares forever.”

“You should have seen Dany’s face,” Margaery says, giggling. “It was all kind of twisted up, like she didn’t know whether or not she was going to laugh, cry, or rain down fiery doom.” She laughs again.

Daenerys tries to look stern, but the effect is somewhat spoiled by the fact that her lips are twitching upwards at the corners.

“At least I didn’t point and mock,” she says, loftily. “Not like…

“Asha,” they say together.

Now we all laugh.

“You know,” Daenerys says to Margaery. “Sansa and Asha work in the same coffee shop.”

“Really?” Margaery says, raising her eyebrows. “You still go there?” Not waiting for a reply, she turns her attention to me. “What’s *that* like; working with Asha? Does she make you do weapons drills in the middle of the shop? Balance coffee cups on your head to improve your stance?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say, wondering how many other people are going to ask me that question. “She’s actually a pretty good assistant manager.”

I tell Margaery what I told Missandei and Daenerys — not to mention Renly, and too many other re-enactors to count — but that doesn’t sate her curiosity. She asks question after question, even somehow managing to entice Daenerys to get into the act. I find myself telling them both every little detail about the job, the shop, the rest of my colleagues, Mr Baelish and even some of the regular customers.

I think this is the most I’ve ever talked about the place.

Eventually, I run out of things to tell them, slumping back in my seat and finishing off the last of my caramel hot chocolate.

“Wow,” says Margaery. “I’m amazed you get any work done at all.”

“We work,” I protest, feeling a little defensive.

“And I’m sure you work very hard,” she agrees, her tone reassuring. “But it also sounds like you have a lot of fun,” she adds, her eyes twinkling mischievously.

“I suppose,” I mutter.

“I can’t wait to meet all your colleagues,” she says enthusiastically. “I almost feel like I know them already. Ygritte certainly sounds like fun. I bet she knows *all* the best parties.”

“Um, maybe,” I say cautiously. I have no doubt whatsoever that Margaery would be able to talk Ygritte into taking her out partying, and I do *not* want to have to tell Loras that I lost his sister somewhere in the party singularity. I don’t think he’d be at all impressed.

“So, I have another question,” says Daenerys quietly.

“Yes?”

“What’s my nickname?”

I blink at her.

“Um, what?”

“You said that the memorable and/or difficult customers are often given nicknames,” she says, smirking a little, perhaps at my undoubtedly rabbit-in-headlights expression. “I don’t know about memorable, but I’m pretty sure I fall under the category of ‘difficult.’ So, what do they call me?”

“Um,” I say again.

“That’s an excellent question, Daenerys,” Margaery purrs, leaning forward. “I want to know that, too. So, what is it, Sansa? What *do* you all call the inimitable Ms Daenerys Targaryen behind her back?”

I wilt a little under the combined intensity of two pairs of brilliant blue eyes: one curious, one mischievous; both highly amused.

Actually, no. They both look mischievous. And Margaery looks positively *wicked*.

I swallow hard.

“Um, they call you the Dragon,” I almost whisper.

There’s a moment of silence, and then Margaery abruptly bursts into laughter.

“That’s fantastic,” she managing between peals, hiccoughing a little. “Oh, that’s just *perfect*.”

“That’s… actually much better than I was expecting,” says Daenerys, sounding surprised and — thank god — amused. “You know, I think I like it.”

“You should,” Margaery says, managing to get her laughter under control. “It suits you down to the ground.”

“I’m not sure I’d go that far,” Daenerys says. “But it does have a certain something.” She smiles at me. “Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome,” I croak. I clear my throat and continue. “I’m just glad you’re not annoyed.”

“Not at all,” she assures me. “It’s actually a pretty cool name. Anyway, you know what they say: sticks and stones…”

“May break my bones…” I continue.

“But chains and whips excite me?” Margaery finishes.

Daenerys and I both stare at her.

“What?” she asks, looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “We’re quoting Rihanna, aren’t we?”

Daenerys and I look at each other. Daenerys rolls her eyes.

“Come on, you,” she says, long-sufferingly. “It’s probably long past time we let Sansa have her house back. If you like, I can walk you back to Loras’ place.”

For a moment, Margaery looks like she wants to protest, but I’m not sure whether that’s at leaving, or at being walked home. Instead, though, she smiles.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding sincere. Setting her mug on the table, she heads over towards me.

No, she sashays; her movement all swaying hips and supreme self-confidence.

(I wish I could walk like that.)

(Wait, what am I *thinking*? Of course I don’t want to walk like that. I don’t want that kind of attention. I’m just not that kind of a person.)

(But Margaery… Somehow, she really makes it work. I can’t help but admire her for it.)

I just about have time to scramble to my feet before she throws her arms around me and pulls me into a tight, full-body hug.

“Thank you for having me over, Sansa” she says. Lowering her voice a little, she murmurs. “And thank you for being my pet mage earlier. It’s been a lot of fun.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, my voice coming out a little high-pitched, a little breathless.

The hug goes on a little too long (or maybe not long enough), but she finally releases me to turn her attention to Daenerys.

“Ready when you are,” she says, brightly.

“Thanks for letting us descend upon your house again,” Daenerys says, smiling. “And for the drinks.” To my surprise, she also steps in and hugs me. Her embrace is fast, not lingering, but she’s the one I find myself following when she pulls back, my feet taking a step or two towards her before I stop, confused.

Maybe the tiredness is finally starting to hit. I guess it has been a pretty long day.

I shake off my daze as Daenerys and Margaery retrieve their things, walking them the short distance to the back door.

“Thank you for coming,” I say, the words feeling awkward and clumsy and in my mouth.

“I’ll probably stop by Hot Coffee on Monday,” Daenerys tells me softly, a small smile on her lips. “You’re working in the evening, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” I say. “I’m actually working every evening this week. Except Friday, when I’ve got an afternoon shift.” I shrug a little self-consciously. “My usual Friday afternoon lecture has been cancelled. Also, I’ve already handed in all my coursework and lab reports, so I thought I might as well take as many shifts as I can.”

“What about Wednesday afternoon?” Daenerys asks. “Are you doing anything then?”

“No, actually. Why?”

“I thought, if you wanted, you could come round to my place and watch films or something.” She grins. “My grandparents sent me a blu-ray player as an early Christmas present and I’m dying to try it out.”

“That sounds great,” I say, smiling back at her.

“Well, *I’ll* see you tomorrow,” says Margaery, making me start a little.

(Now *she’s* the one I’d almost forgotten was there. I’m almost surprised I don’t feel guilty about that.)

“Goodnight Sansa,” says Daenerys.

“Pleasant dreams,” says Margaery, her eyes glinting mischievously.

Daenerys makes a face and shoos her along. Laughing, Margaery lets herself be chivvied.

“Goodnight,” I call, belatedly.

I close the door behind them, suddenly exhausted. Part of me wants to just slump against the door. Or maybe crawl into the living room and collapse on one of the sofas. Instead, another urge drives me, making me pick up my heavy feet and practically race up the stairs to my room in a frantic scramble.

The thing is…

The jennel between this house and the next has a couple of peculiar features. For one thing, it acts as a wind tunnel, seeming to be beset with breezes even on the stillest of days. But the other thing, the more important thing right now this second, is the funny thing it does with acoustics. The funny thing that means, when I’m in my room with the window open, I can hear words spoken down there as clearly as if the speakers were right here next to me.

My fingers shake a little as I fumble with the catch, my stomach churning with a welter of conflicting emotions.

This is wrong. I know this is wrong. Eavesdropping is rude and sneaky and everything a proper, well-brought up young woman isn’t supposed to be. But curiosity is *burning* within me, and I want — I *need* — to know what they say when (as far as they know) I’m not there to hear them.

I just want to *understand*.

Maybe I’m taking too long. Maybe they’ve already made it onto the street and out of earshot. Maybe that would be for the best.

Maybe.

But I finally manage to ease the window sash upwards and…

“Will you stop being such a brat!” Daenerys’ voice, clear as day and so full of frustration that I can practically feel it.

I could close the window again, or leave the room, or otherwise make a different choice to the one I’ve already made, but I don’t.

In for a penny, in for a pound…

“I’m not being a brat,” Margaery flashes back. “You just have a stick up your arse. It’s not *my* fault you get so flustered when I flirt with you.”

There’s a brief pause. It suddenly occurs to me that I can’t actually hear footsteps, just voices. I think they’ve just… stopped there. To argue, or whatever it is they’re doing. What are they even thinking?

(This is perfect.)

I guess they’re not exactly screaming at each other, so they’re obviously making an effort to keep their voices down. Which means they don’t want to be overheard. Which means they don’t think they can be overheard. Which means they probably think that it’s safer to have their conversation down there than right in the middle of the street.

(This is awful.)

They don’t know that I can hear every single word.

I feel so guilty.

(But not guilty enough not to listen.)

“Is that why you flirt with… me?” Daenerys asks, and her tone of voice is strange. Irritated, certainly. But maybe even a little… relieved?

I really wish I could see them right now.

“It’s one reason,” Margaery says blithely. “I also find you attractive.” She pauses for a long moment and then, as if she’s just realised something, adds: “Hmm. That’s interesting.”

“What?” Daenerys practically growls. “What’s interesting?”

“Nothing you need to worry your pretty little head about,” Margaery tells her, sounding almost fond. “So, does it bother you that I flirt with you?”

“Of course it does! Margaery, you’re seventeen. I’m twenty. This is so far removed from appropriate that it’s not even funny.”

“I’m not a child,” Margaery murmurs. Instead echoing her earlier indignation, her tone this time is smoky and dark. Now, I hear footsteps. Two of them, slow and precise. Like one of them is moving away from the other. Or towards. “You don’t think I’m still a virgin, do you?”

Silence.

No, not silence.

Soft sounds. Wet sounds. Sounds like…

*Oh.*

“Margaery!” Daenerys sputters, and her voice is a little muffled, like there’s something — someone — pressed against her lips. More rapid footsteps, and then Daenerys speaks again, more clearly, her voice a harsh whisper. “That’s enough.”

“I’m- I’m sorry,” Margaery says, and for the first time since I’ve met her she actually sounds… young. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just… It was just in fun. I didn’t realise I was actually bothering you.”

“Well, you were.” Now Daenerys just sounds… tired. My whole body aches with the desire to just go down there and hold her. Except then I’d have to explain about the eavesdropping and… No. I wrap my arms around my middle to try to drive the urge away. “I know you think you’re so sophisticated and worldly-wise, and I know you’re used to hanging around with people older than you, but you need to be careful. Otherwise, one of these days, you’re going to play with the wrong person and end up getting hurt. Or you’re going to end up hurting them.”

“I can handle myself,” Margaery says quietly, then makes a wordless, frustrated sound. I picture her throwing up her hands. “God, Daenerys, it’s not some big serious *thing*. I just like flirting with pretty girls. And pretty boys. That’s all. I’m not going to get hurt, and I have no *intention* of hurting anyone else.” She draws in a deep, audible breath. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t realise you were actually uncomfortable and I won’t flirt at you any more if you don’t want me to.” With some of her former blithe cheer, she adds: “Well, not unless it’s *really* funny.”

“Margaery!” Daenerys admonishes, sounding as if, despite herself, she’s keeping in a laugh.

“Sorry.” Margaery sounds distinctly unrepentant, and Daenerys actually does chuckle a little.

“Okay, then. Let’s get you home.”

“Well, if *you’re* going to flirt, it’s really not fair that I can’t.”

I clap my hand over my mouth to stifle the (highly inappropriate) burst of laughter that bubbles up in the back of my throat.

“Margaery!” Daenerys says, sounding like she has the same problem.

“What? You’re not expecting me to go cold turkey are you?”

“Just… Just try, okay?”

“I can be very trying,” Margaery says sweetly. “Now, shall we get going? It’s *cold* out here.”

“Well, maybe you should think about wearing more clothes,” Daenerys says tartly.

“But where’s the fun in that?”

With that, their footsteps and voices fade away into silence, leaving me alone with my thoughts.

Well.

I know one thing for certain: when I see Margaery tomorrow, I am going to blush *so* hard.

Who knew university was going to be so confusing?


	19. Chapter 19

“Well, hello again.”

Margaery’s voice in my ear makes me start a little, but not as much as when she lightly kisses my cheeks, continental style. When she draws back, I can see that she’s smirking. 

I smile to cover my sudden breathlessness. 

“Hi,” I say, sounding annoyingly shy and hesitant. I make myself take a deep breath, self-consciously straightening my spine and trying to look like attractive women greet me with kisses all the time. Like it’s really no big deal at all. “Fancy meeting you here.”

Asha straightens from her warm-up stretches to give the pair of us a curious look.

“You two know each other?”

“Oh, we’re great friends,” Margaery proclaims airily, taking my arm in hers.

“Margaery came to LARP yesterday,” I explain, flushing but making no attempt to pull away.

Margaery’s clearly just a physically demonstrative person, and it would be rude to show discomfort.

(Although… I’m not actually uncomfortable. Not really. Not in the usual way, anyway.)

(In fact, I think maybe this closeness, this contact, actually feels… nice?)

“And Sansa ever-so graciously invited me back to her house afterwards.”

“With a bunch of other people,” I clarify. “It’s kind of tradition to hang around at someone’s house after LARP. And mine’s closest to campus, so I often end up hosting…”

I make myself stop babbling, which isn’t the easiest thing in the world to do right now. Why do I always get so… so… so *flustered*?

“Very hospitable of you,” Asha says dryly.

“She’s a wonderful hostess,” Margaery says, smiling at me and I can’t help smiling back.

Asha makes a noncommittal sound. “Well, don’t think I’m going to take it easy on you because you had a late night. Or because you’re a kid.”

“I’m *not* a kid.” Margaery practically hisses the words, glaring at Asha in a way that makes me very glad I’m not on the receiving end of it.

Asha just laughs.

“Get warmed up, the pair of you,” she says cheerfully. “It’s the last training session before the end of term. Let’s make it count!”

She heads off to apply her particular brand of encouragement to some of the others. Margaery stares daggers at the back of her head for a moment, then turns to me with a lopsided grin.

“Asha never changes,” she murmurs, then tilts her head, giving me a long, considering look through her eyelashes. “*You* don’t think I’m a child, do you?”

I freeze, caught in the headlights of her gaze.

“Um, no, not at all,” I reassure her, shaking my head. Honestly, ‘childlike’ is the *last* word I would use to describe her. She seems far too… far too… (womanly) *mature* for that. I don’t think Asha even meant it, not really. I think she was just winding Margaery up. And Daenerys… Well, Daenerys was using a whole level of context I don’t want to touch with a ten foot pole. A thought occurs to me. “Anyway, you’re not that much younger than I am.”

If I remember correctly, there’s only a few months in it. Well, several, maybe. And what’s that between friends?

“That’s right,” she says, looking as if she’s just had some kind of revelation. “Not that much younger at all…” She eyes me… Well, the best word to describe it would be speculatively, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what’s going through her head.

(Maybe that’s for the best.)

“We should finish warming up,” I say quickly.

“You can’t rush a good warm-up,” she says, with altogether more amusement than the words would warrant.

Half the time when I talk to her, I feel like she’s saying two different things at the same time.

(I’m starting to think she might be flirting with *me*. Improbable as that may sound.)

“Um, right.”

I don’t know what else to say.

We run through the usual drills and exercises, splitting up into smaller groups to practice or, in some cases, to spar. Margaery ends up working with Loras and — curious to see how the two of them interact with each other — I find myself paying more attention to them (to her) than to what I’m doing, earning myself a clunk on the head for my trouble.

“Pay attention, Stark,” Asha snaps. “There’s no way that blow should have connected. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I mutter. Luckily it’s more my pride that’s dented than anything else. Asha glances towards Margaery and Loras, then back to me, one eyebrow raised. I jump in before she can give voice to whatever scathing remark might be running through her mind. “Shall we continue, or did you need to take a breather?”

“Mouthy bint,” she says, sounding like she approves. “Okay, let’s work on your block for a bit.”

The rest of the training session seems to fly by. When Renly calls a halt to the proceedings I check my watch out of habit, then check it again, frowning. It’s an hour earlier than our usual finish time.

What’s going on?

“Alright, you horrible lot,” Renly calls out. “In honour of this being the last training session before Christmas, we’re going to do something a little different. We’re going to have a tournament.” A combination cheer and groan goes up from the crowd. Well, more cheer than groan, I guess. My feelings on the subject are… decidedly mixed.

When the noise dies down a little, Renly continues. “Standard sparring rules. Everyone competes. No exceptions. You’ll be divided into two groups: people who joined this year and everyone else. Matches are drawn randomly within each group. The referees are the ones with the clipboards. Any questions? Tough. Old hands to my right, newbies to my left. Come on, people, get moving. We haven’t got all day.”

People start milling around in a semi-purposeful meander.

“Come on, Stark! Don’t look so nervous,” Asha says, nudging me in the side. “You can’t avoid a real scrap forever.”

“I’m not nervous,” I snap back, rubbing my side pointedly. “I’m just wondering how many people you’re going to put in the hospital this time. I’ve heard those stories.”

There’s scattered laughter from those in earshot.

“She’s got you there,” Renly says, snickering.

“One time!” she protests. “That was *one* time. Anyway, that was just a fluke. It wasn’t my fault at all.”

“Maybe we should start a pool going,” Renly smirks. “Any takers for two or more?” Asha elbows him. “Ow!” He rubs his side, wincing exaggeratedly. “Make that three or more.”

“Fuck off, Frenchy.” She scowls at all and sundry until the laughter and catcalling dies down. “Now, stop pissing around and let’s get on with this.”

For my first bout, I’m facing Pod and actually — to my utter shock — end up winning. I can’t really claim it’s due to skill, though. It’s more that Pod seems too scared to actually swing his sword anywhere near me.

He actually seems relieved to lose. Poor guy.

Buoyed by my victory — no matter how unearned — I look over at my next opponent… And up. And up. And up.

Oh. I’m facing Brick — the new recruit formerly known as Andy — one of the few people in the club who actually towers over me.

It actually feels a little strange having to look up at someone for once. Strange, and kind of intimidating.

Um. I can’t remember what to do.

How do I hold a sword again?

“Don’t worry, Rose,” he says, grinning broadly. “I’ll make this quick.”

(“I’ll make you sorry.”)

He’ll what?

“Ow!”

Brick gets the first hit in while I’m still gawping at him, and someone *really* needs to pull their blows a little, (okay, maybe a lot), and he’s just assuming I’m going to be a walkover; that I’ll just give in without a fight, that the outcome isn’t even in *doubt*.

(“I don’t think you even know how to stand up for yourself. It’s pathetic. *You’re* pathetic.”)

We’ll bloody well see about that!

The next blow comes in high — too high, and telegraphed a mile off now that I’m actually paying attention — so I sidestep, coming in under his guard with a quick hit to the stomach. And, maybe there isn’t much power to it — not as much as there should be even for a pulled blow; my grip is off and if I was fighting Asha I’d certainly know about it — but it’s still a hit.

“Good one,” he says, sounding surprised, and then he grins. “But can you do it again?”

(“What do you think you can do about it?”)

I pull my shoulders back and bend my knees a little, trying to remember what the correct stance is supposed to feel like.

“Let’s see, shall we?”

The rest of the bout is a bit of a blur. Both of us land solid hits, but I’m too busy dodging and parrying and looking for an opening to keep track of points and so I quickly lose count. My whole world seems to have narrowed to this one fight, which feels like it’s been going on forever.

It’s almost a shock when the referee calls it.

I stand there, breathing heavily, barely able to hold my sword.

“That was a close one, but the match goes to Sansa.” I stare at the referee, Graham, unable to believe what I’m hearing. I won? I actually won? “Congratulations! You’re up against…” Graham consults his clipboard. “Queenie next.”

“Um, thanks,” I whisper, wanting nothing more than to just collapse where I stand.

(“You’re always going to be a loser.”)

(Shut up! Just shut the f- Just shut the heck up!)

(You don’t know what the flip you’re talking about.)

I *won*.

(And you never did.)

“Hey, you’re pretty good,” Brick says, shaking my hand enthusiastically. “You should spar more often.” He leans in, lowering his voice a little. “And give me a heads up when you do, so I can place a little bet. I’ll even give you a cut of the winnings. Trust me, we’ll clean up.” He winks, claps me on the shoulder and saunters off to watch one of the other matches.

“Well done,” says Margaery, her eyes sparkling as she wanders up to give me a quick hug.

“Thanks,” I say, smiling at her. “I think it was a bit of a fluke, though.”

“Oh, nonsense. You’re too hard on yourself.” She starts to say something else, but Graham interrupts.

“Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes,” I say, trying to remember who ‘Queenie’ is. “But I’m waiting for…” Margaery steps back and waves ruefully. “You?”

“Afraid so,” she murmurs. “You can thank Asha for the nickname. Apparently she likes Blackadder.” Her pursed lips show exactly what she thinks about that moniker before she dismisses it with a shrug.

(I wonder what lip balm she uses. My lips chap like anything in this weather, no matter how much balm I slather on them, but hers look so soft.)

“I should technically be in the other group,” she says, an edge of irritation to her voice. “But they sent me over here.” She pouts. (Her lips really do look soft.) “Okay, *technically* I’ve only had a few lessons in this style of fighting, but I’ve been fencing for ages now. I should be back there with the big girls and boys.”

“Oh.”

(I’m not exactly sorry she’s over here with me, even if I am going to have to spar with her.)

“Less talking, more sparring,” calls Graham, a touch impatiently. “Take your marks.” We obey. I try to push aside my daze and focus. I’m not entirely successful. “Begin.”

I never really have a chance.

I give a reasonably good accounting of myself, but I know when I’m outmatched.

Unlike the bout with Brick, this one feels like it’s over in moments.

“Congratulations,” I tell Margaery, smiling.

Truth to tell, I think I’ve had enough sparring for the day in any case. I go to shake Margaery’s hand, but she pulls me into a hug.

“Thank you,” she says, brightly. “This was fun. We should do it again sometime.”

“Um…” I don’t know what to say to that. Luckily, Graham is already directing her to her next opponent.

“Come cheer me on in my next match?” she says, looking back at me hopefully.

I nod.

“Of course. I just need to put my sword away.”

If I’m really honest, I’m not watching the bout so much as I’m watching Margaery. From the small, fierce smile on her lips to the way she seems almost to glide over the churned-up ground like the mud can’t touch her; every little thing about her radiates confidence and poise.

She makes me think of ballrooms and intrigues and courtly affairs.

(Secret assignations by candlelight.)

For what seems like the first time in a while, my mind drifts towards my unfinished story; the one with the vampires and were-sharks and a world hidden in shadows. Maybe that’s what it was missing…

Belatedly, I realise that Margaery’s bout has come to an end. I’m all set to congratulate her when I realise that, much to my surprise, she hasn’t actually won it. She seems to take her defeat with good grace, smiling at her opponent as she congratulates him, wishing him luck with the rest of the tournament.

I hover awkwardly until she hands her sword to Graham and heads back over to me.

I… think she’s supposed to put her own sword away, but Graham doesn’t seem to be complaining. If he doesn’t mind, I guess there’s no point in me saying anything.

“Commiserations?” I say instead, questioningly.

“Thanks,” she says, smiling. “But that’s okay. He was just better, that’s all. I think I held my end up pretty well, though, even if I do say so myself.” Her smile widens. “Besides,” she adds, taking my arm. “This means I get to spend more time with you.” 

“Um, thanks.” That probably isn’t really the right thing to say, but I don’t really know what is. “Shall we go and watch Loras?”

“Yes, let’s.” She pulls a face. “Although I’ve already ended up seeing rather more of my brother this weekend than I ever wanted to.”

“Oh?” I ask, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

She leans in close to me, lowering her voice.

“He had Renly over to visit.” Does she mean…? “They were in bed together.”

Oh. I guess she does. My cheeks flame like the surface of the sun. I start to tell her she can stop right there, but she keeps talking.

“They weren’t sleeping. They were-”

“I know what they were doing!” I say hastily, lest she feels she needs to give me a blow by blow — um, okay, *bad* choice of words — account of what exactly she walked in on. “I mean, I can guess.”

“Oh. Good,” she murmurs, obscurely. “I was wondering if I’d have to draw you a picture.”

“I’m not *that* naive,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

(I feel a sudden stab of insecurity. Does she think I’m childish or something? Not that there’s anything wrong with being… being innocent, of course, but…)

(“Are you frigid or something?”)

(I don’t want her to think I’m immature or unsophisticated.)

I look around, but there’s no one within earshot. Most people seem to be busy watching the various sparring matches, or making an early start on the drinking.

Or both.

“Good to know,” she whispers, her lips so close to my ear that they almost brush against it. I find myself holding my breath until she leans back again. “Can you believe, they had the nerve to yell at me for walking in on them?”

I glance over at her, unsure whether or not she’s being serious.

“Didn’t you knock?”

“Of course I knocked,” she says, indignantly. “No one answered. I assumed that meant Loras was asleep, so I just went in.”

“How embarrassing,” I say faintly, blushing on her behalf.

She shrugs. “More startling than embarrassing,” she replies, matter-of-factly. “He could have put a note on the door, or sent me a text or something. There’s a protocol for these things!”

I blink at her.

“There is?”

“Of course there is,” she says, looking at me like I’ve started talking some crazy moon language. “I don’t mind him getting his end away while I’m visiting, but I certainly don’t want to see it! He should have warned me. If I’d known, I would’ve texted when I set off back, or waited downstairs until they were done. I *did* tell him that when he picked me up at the station. I certainly wasn’t expecting him to be a saint all weekend. But no, Loras the noble-hearted had to be all long-suffering and tell me it wouldn’t be an issue.” She shakes her head sadly. “You’d think he would’ve learned his lesson after the last time.”

“Oh. Um… Oh.” I don’t know whether to be horrified or amused. I end up being a little of both. “Um, if it’s a problem, um, if you want, you could, um…” I take a deep breath, then get the words out all in a rush, before I can change my mind. “You could stay at my place tonight if you want.”

She looks at me like I’ve surprised her.

“Sansa, that would be lovely,” she breathes. “Are you sure you don’t mind me imposing?”

“It’s no imposition,” I assure her, a little more confident now. “I’ve got plenty of room, and I’m sure my housemates won’t mind.”

I should probably send them a text to confirm, but I’m pretty sure none of them will have a problem with me having a friend to stay the night. It’s not like I’m having a boyfriend over or anything.

Not that Indira would have any room to talk if I *did* have a boy over, but that’s not the point.

“Well, in that case, I accept!” Margaery says, bestowing a brilliant smile on me. “Thank you so much. I’ll need to pick up some things from Loras’ place first, though, if that’s okay.” Her smile turns sly for a moment, her eyes glittering wickedly. “Otherwise I wouldn’t have a *thing* to sleep in.”

I cough.

“Um, I’m sure we can take a detour en route to the pub.”

“Excellent,” she says. “Now, where has that brother of mine got to…?”

As I let Margaery drag me along with her, I can’t help wondering: what on earth am I letting myself in for?

 

* * * * *

 

“Where did you disappear off to, Stark?”

Asha’s voice startles me out of the deep, dark depths of my thoughts. (Wondering what Daenerys is doing today. Irrationally hoping she isn’t going to mind Margaery staying with me. (Although there’s no reason on earth I can think of why she would.) Trying to figure out the meaning of that last little arched eyebrow and quirk of the lips Margaery gave me after we stowed her things in my room.) I turn to her and smile.

“Oh, we had to pick up Margaery’s things and drop them off at my place,” I explain. “She’s staying with me tonight.”

Asha’s eyebrows shoot up so high, I almost expect them to just keep going and shoot right off her head. I have to stifle a giggle at the mental image.

“Whose idea was that?”

“Mine,” I say, with maybe just a touch of indignation. Without really thinking it through, I add: “I thought Loras would appreciate the privacy.”

Asha bursts out laughing.

“Let me guess — she walked in on them again.”

“You’d have to ask her,” I say, a little stiffly.

“I will, don’t you worry,” she says, clapping me on the shoulder. “I could use a good laugh. Thanks for the heads up.” She starts to turn away, and then turns back to me. “Oh, and Sansa?”

“Yes?” I answer cautiously.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“What?” I ask (squeak) in confusion, but she’s already gone.

I glower after her, seriously contemplating dragging her back here and demanding that she explain herself.

What on earth was *that* supposed to mean?

Uncharacteristic as it would be, I really am that close to trying to pry an answer out of her, but then Renly chooses that moment to come and talk to me.

It’s probably a good thing. I’d only end up embarrassing myself otherwise.

“Sansa, my darling, you are a *lifesaver*,” he says, sweeping up my hand before I can so much as think about moving, bringing it to his lips with a flourish.

“Um, you’re welcome?” I reclaim my hand as soon as I can do so without seeming rude. “But what have I done?”

“Let the brat stay with you tonight, of course,” he says. “Let me tell you, last night was *not* an experience I’d care to repeat. Doesn’t anyone know how to knock these days?”

“She said she did,” I muttered.

“Well, clearly she didn’t knock loudly enough,” he says firmly. “Anyway, enough about that,” he continues, much to my great relief. “I owe you a drink. What are you having? Diet coke? J2O?” He grins broadly. “Something really daring like a Babycham?”

Babycham? What am I, sixty?

“Vodka tonic,” I say faintly.

Renly blinks at me like I’ve just sprouted a second head.

“Beg pardon?” he says.

I waver for a moment, then press ahead.

“I’ll have a vodka tonic, please.”

“Okay, then.” He shrugs and smiles. “Whatever the lady desires. I will be back shortly.”

“Thanks.”

As he heads off to the bar, I allow myself the luxury of a trip down memory lane.

Some party or other. Gemma’s house? That sounds about right. It must have been the weekend her parents went away to France. They told her she could have a few friends over. Heh. ‘A few.’ How naive of them.

Jeyne brought the vodka. No idea who brought the tonic. Jeyne assured me she knew how to make a vodka tonic, but she clearly had no clue whatsoever about the proportions. And the vodka was like paint-stripper. She definitely went for quantity, not quality.

We drank them anyway, though.

(Jeyne looked so pretty that night. And we couldn’t stop giggling at ourselves, at each other, at life in general. We had to hang onto each other so tightly just to have even a chance of staying upright.)

God, it’s a wonder we didn’t get alcohol poisoning.

“Hi Sansa.”

I look around.

“Oh, hi Pod.” I smile at him. He smiles back at me and fidgets a little. An awkward silence descends. “What did you think of the tournament?”

He shrugs.

“Yeah, it was okay. I think I preferred watching to sparring, though,” he says, and surprises me with a sheepish grin. “I’m not very good at sparring, as you could probably tell. I tend to just freeze up.”

“I do that too,” I say, smiling back.

“Not today, though,” he says, so painfully earnest that I cringe a little on the inside. “You were great against Brick.”

I shrug.

“I got…” Not angry. I don’t *get* angry. (It’s not polite.) It’s just not me. “Irritated,” I confess, a little shamefacedly. “I don’t think he was expecting that. Anyway, Margaery wiped the floor with me.”

“Yes, but she’s Margaery Tyrell,” he says, with a slightly awed expression that makes me think I don’t have to worry about him crushing on me anymore. (I can sympathise with him.) “She’s Loras’ sister. And you gave a pretty good showing even so.”

“Thanks, Pod. That’s nice of you to say.”

He shrugs awkwardly.

“‘M not being nice,” he mutters, scuffing one toe on the floorboards awkwardly. “It’s the truth.”

He flushes a little, and I wonder if I was being a little hasty in assuming I’ve been supplanted in his affections.

“Well, thanks anyway,” I say, before this can get even more painful.

“Would you like a drink?” he blurts out.

“Renly’s fetching me one.”

“Oh.”

We look at each other.

Help?

“*There* you are.” Margaery’s voice is sweeter than a heavenly chorus, offering salvation from this stilted conversation. “I was wondering where you’d got to.”

“I was here,” I say inanely.

Margaery twines her arm through mine and smiles at Pod.

“I don’t think we’ve spoken yet. I’m Margaery. It’s Patrick, isn’t it?”

He nods and ducks his head, blushing furiously. “Yes,” he says shyly. “But everyone calls me Pod.”

“Which do you prefer?” she asks.

He looks up, catches her eye (at least, I think it’s her eye he catches and not anything lower, but I could be wrong), and then fixes his gaze firmly on his feet again.

“Pod is fine,” he mutters.

How does she know his real name? *I* didn’t know his real name, not off the top of my head. Well, I probably did, back at the beginning of term, but I guess I haven’t really used it for a while. Everyone thinks of him as Pod, now. He even signs his e-mails that way.

I tune back into their small talk to hear him offering to buy her a drink.

“I would love one, thank you,” she says, gracing him with a pleased smile. “I’ll have a white wine spritzer, please.”

She gives me an expectant look. It takes me a moment to realise what it’s for.

“Oh, Renly’s already getting me a drink,” I explain.

“I- I won’t be long,” Pod says. He shuffles off in the direction of the bar, glancing back over his shoulder as he goes.

Can’t tear his eyes away from Margaery, I’ll bet.

(God knows I’ve been having my own problems with that. She’s just so… vivacious.)

“Thanks, Pod,” she calls after him. He’s too busy smiling at her to watch where he’s going and almost walks smack-bang into Renly, who narrowly manages to avert disaster by side-stepping gracefully.

“Eyes front, Pod,” he admonishes.

“Sorry!” Pod yelps, freezing in place. He continues to babble apologies until Renly reassures him that it’s fine, that no harm was done.

“Just watch where you’re going in future, okay?”

“I will! Sorry!”

With an exasperated “Freshers!” Renly shakes his head and leaves Pod to it. He saunters towards us and holds up my drink triumphantly like it’s some hard-won trophy.

“There you go,” he says, smiling. “One vodka-tonic.”

“Thank you.” I accept the drink, but I can’t quite bring myself to take a sip of it. Not yet. I’m not sure what I was even thinking just asking for this. “I’m impressed you didn’t spill it all over the floor.”

“Well-honed reflexes,” he says easily. He turns to Margaery. “I suppose you’ll be wanting something as well,” he adds, sighing.

“Already taken care of,” she says graciously.

“A soft drink, is it?”

Margaery rolls her eyes.

“Practically. It’s only a white wine spritzer.”

“You know you’re under age, right?” Renly’s voice is serious, but his mouth quirks up slightly and his eyes are sparkling mischievously.

“I’m allowed beer or wine as long as an adult buys it for me,” she retorts, narrowing her eyes at him

“With a meal,” he counters. “And I don’t see any food.”

“What are you going to rat me out?” she says, wryly. “Anyway, since when were you a member of the morality police?”

He grins suddenly. “Since the twelfth of never, thank the heavens. Just winding you up, *Marge*.”

“Oh, is that so?” she murmurs, a steely glint in her eyes.

Listening to them bicker back and forth, I find that habit makes my decision for me, the taste of spirits flooding my mouth before I’m even really aware of bringing the glass to my lips. In my startlement, I accidentally inhale a little and then have to press my lips tightly together to stop myself from spraying it everywhere. My eyes water a little with the effort, and the stinging.

Oh. Ow. My sinuses.

Dimly, I hear the sound of someone saying my name.

“Sansa, are you alright?” Renly actually sounds worried. God, I must look a fright. How utterly embarrassing.

I should have stuck with the diet coke.

I’m vaguely aware of Margaery disentangling her arm from mine and resting her hand on my back, just between my shoulder blades.

“Are you choking?” she asks. “Is there something I can do?”

With a valiant effort, I swallow the sip of vodka tonic — at least the bit that isn’t lodged in my nose — and promptly sneeze three times before coughing violently.

“I’m fine,” I croak, between coughs. “It just went down the wrong way. I guess I’m a little out of practice with drinking. Sorry. Don’t worry.”

I notice that Pod has returned, and is peering at me in alarm. Because what I need right now are *more* witnesses to my humiliation.

I stop coughing — largely through sheer force of will — and dig around in my pocket for a handkerchief to mop at my eyes and blow my nose.

How very ladylike, Sansa.

I wish the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

“Are you alright now?” Margaery asks softly.

I nod. “I think so.”

She gives me a searching look, and then a wicked little smile curves her lips.

“Do you need mouth to mouth?”

I very nearly start spluttering again.

She’s joking, obviously. 

“No, I, um, I think I can manage.”

I’m sure she doesn’t really murmur “Pity,” as she finally accepts her own drink from Pod. And by the time she turns back to me, the only expression on her face is one of innocent concern.

(But… I know what I heard. )

(And maybe she wasn’t just joking.)

(Maybe ‘innocent’ is the last word I should use to describe Margaery Tyrell.)

(And I think, maybe… Looking back over the past day or so, I think she might actually have been flirting with me all along.)

(Maybe.)

“Well, that’s a relief,” proclaims Renly. “Don’t scare me like that! Do you want a glass of water or something?” He gestures at the glass clutched tightly in my hand. “Should I ah, find another home for that?”

“No, that’s alright,” I say, sounding a lot firmer than I feel. I even manage to scrape up a smile from somewhere. “After embarrassing myself like that, I really need this drink.”

Renly and Margaery laugh. Even Pod smiles a little.

(They’re laughing at me. They think I’m a fool, an idiot, an embarrassment.)

(“I can’t take you anywhere.”)

(No.)

(They’re not laughing at me, they’re laughing with me.)

They’re laughing *with* me, and it actually makes me feel better, my smile even starting to feel genuine. I gather up my courage and turn to Margaery.

“M- Maybe you should keep the mouth to mouth on stand-by, though. I’m going to make another attempt.”

If she can make jokes (flirt) like that, then so can I.

(I don’t want her to think I can’t handle it.)

(Anyway, it’s harmless. It doesn’t mean anything.)

She laughs delightedly; a sound like a caress.

“Consider it done,” she says lightly.

I take a careful, deliberate sip of my vodka tonic, this time managing to actually drink the liquid rather than inhaling it. I try to savour the taste, but it burns all the way down and I have to stop myself from pulling a face. Maybe I’ll savour the next one. (Or the one after that.)

It feels almost like I’ve passed a test.

I beam at the others.

“Congratulations,” says Renly, offering up his own glass in a sardonic salute. “You’ve successfully mastered the art of drinking liquid.”

“Quiet, you,” says Margaery him, looking down her nose at him. “There’s no need for that kind of sarcasm.”

“Mademoiselle, there is *every* need,” he says grandly. “But if you ladies don’t appreciate my wit, then I’ll go and find someone who does.” He turns on his heel and strides off into the crowd.

“Good luck with that,” Margaery calls after him.

I laugh, then feel guilty, then determinedly push the guilt away. Renly started it, after all. Although he did buy me this drink. Which almost choked me, but it isn’t exactly his fault if I can’t handle my alcohol, which brings me back to guilt, which…

“What are you thinking about?”

Thankfully, Margaery’s question pulls me out of the emotional whirlpool before it can seriously start to drag me down. I smile at her.

“Nothing much. Nothing you’d be interested in, I’m sure.”

“Oh, but I am interested in you,” she purrs. “I find you extremely…” she steps back a little, letting her gaze brushing over me like the softest silk. “Fascinating.”

“Um, I’m sure that’s not true,” I say. I take another sip of my drink, barely even noticing the burn this time. “You’re the fascinating one. I mean, I’ve been hardly able to keep my eyes off you,” I say, then flush again, taking refuge in my drink.

When I glance upwards again, it’s to the tail end of a look I can’t quite decipher but before I can make a fool of myself by asking, she laughs softly and raises her glass.

“To interesting people,” she says lightly.

“To interesting people,” I echo, clinking my glass lightly against hers.

We both drink deeply.

 

* * * * *

 

A little while later, I find myself standing next to Asha at the bar. She nods cordially at me.

“Enjoying yourself, Stark?”

“Yes,” I say, smiling a little. “Yes, I am.”

Margaery is funny, and smart, and I really like talking to her. Even better, she actually seems to want to talk to me, despite the fact that we spent so much time together yesterday. I’ve been talking to other people as well, of course — we both have; it’s not like we’re joined at the hip or anything — but it’s kind of nice to have another woman to talk to sometimes. Especially one who I just seem to… to *click* with so well.

I don’t have many friends.

(“You don’t *have* any friends.”)

The thought is automatic, but it brings me up short.

Actually… no. That’s not true. I do have friends. Quite a few friends, actually. Close friends, even, like Daenerys and Reza.

(So *there*.)

It takes me a little while to recognise the feeling bubbling up within me for what it: triumph. I allow myself the indulgence of basking in it for a moment or two before I suddenly recall my manners.

“How about you? Are you having fun?”

She grins. “As much fun as a cock in a whorehouse.”

I blink as I try to parse that sentence.

“Shouldn’t that be henhouse? Not, um, what you said.”

“Depends what kind of cock you’re talking about,” she says.

I flush, but refuse to look away.

“Well, if you’re having *that* kind of fun,” I say, deliberately prim. “Perhaps you should take it somewhere more private.”

She gives me a considering look.

“Did you just make a joke, Stark?”

“Maybe?” I say, trying and failing to sound sure of myself. I fight the urge to add an apology onto the end. It’s actually not as difficult a fight as I would’ve expected.

She laughs heartily, raising a hand to clap me on the shoulder. I brace for impact, but it’s surprisingly gentle. Gentle for her, at any rate. It still rocks me back a little on my heels, but at least it doesn’t leave me feeling like my arm’s gone dead.

“There’s hope for you yet,” she declares.

I roll my eyes and she laughs even harder. I can’t help grinning back at her, her good humour proving infectious.

“Can I get you a drink?” I ask.

“It’s alright,” she says. “I’ve already ordered.” She pulls a face. “Anyway, I’m buying for Loras. Loser’s forfeit.”

“It looked like a close fight.”

I’m not sure anyone was really surprised that the old guards’ finalists ended up being Asha and Loras. Everyone knows they’re the best fighters in the society, even if they have such wildly different styles. Loras is all precision and technique and honed reflexes; Asha a primal force of barely-leashed violence. Watching them fight was… Wow. I don’t have the words. The right word would probably be some combination of amazing and terrifying.

Terrazing? Amazifying?

It almost makes me wonder what it would be like if they ever fought for real.

“Fucking right it was close,” she says. “But he still won.” She shrugs. “Deserved it, too.” For a moment, the look on her face is one of pure admiration, but then she grins fiercely. “Guess I’ll just have to try harder next time.”

“I’d offer to toast that, but I don’t have a drink yet,” I say.

As if that was the sacred summoning phrase, a bartender materialises before me and asks for my order. As I pay, I notice that Asha is giving me a funny look. I’m pretty sure I know why.

“I decided to drink tonight,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Any particular reason?”

I shrug. “Not really. I just…” I sigh, struggling to find the words to explain something even I don’t really understand myself. “I just want to,” I settle on.

(Who knows? Maybe it’ll help drown out the voices.)

(Well, one voice.)

“Fair enough. You planning on getting drunk?”

Planning? I haven’t planned anything. I just wanted another drink, maybe several more drinks. I hadn’t really thought much beyond that. But now that Asha’s asked me the question, I realise I actually do have an answer for her.

“No, not drunk. Just… tipsy. Just enough to take the edge off, a little.”

(Enough to give me courage. Enough to let me do things that other people — normal people — seem to take for granted.)

(Like maybe indulge in a little harmless, meaningless flirting with a pretty girl who seems to want to flirt with me.)

“Enough to lower your inhibitions, maybe?”

“Maybe.”

It’s actually a shock to hear myself say that out loud.

I find myself searching Asha’s face, trying to figure out what she thinks about this; whether she’s judging me (condemning me).

All she does is nod matter-of-factly, like she was just asking the question for informational purposes, not so she could pass judgement.

Which, as soon as I realise that, makes me feel utterly and completely ridiculous.

I think, for a moment, I forgot who I was actually talking to.

“Want me to watch out for you?” she asks.

“Please,” I say, relieved beyond measure that she’s brought it up. Even though she’d already offered, however many weeks ago that was now, I hadn’t figured out how I was going to actually ask her.

(And, okay, maybe bumping into her at the bar wasn’t entirely due to happenstance.)

“Alright,” she says. She gives me a long look. “But here’s the deal. I’ll protect you from other people, but I’m not going to protect you from yourself. If you really want to do something, I won’t stop you. I might ask you what the fuck you’re thinking if the situation warrants it, but if you tell me to fuck off, then — so long as you’re not in harm’s way — off I will fuck. Understand?”

I don’t answer right away, turning her words over in my mind. I think… I think I can live with that.

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good,” she says, and it feels like we’ve just sealed a contract or something. “Try not to do anything while tipsy that you’ll seriously regret while sober, but otherwise…” She grins suddenly, clapping me on the shoulder again. “This is a party, Stark. Have fun!”

I smile back at her, carefully gathering up the drinks the bartender places in front of me.

“Thanks. I think will.”


	20. Chapter 20

The rest of the evening seems to fly by in a whirl of chatter and laughter and even — yes — flirting. Maybe I haven’t really had much (any) practice at it, and maybe I’m a little awkward, a little clumsy, but Margaery doesn’t seem to mind.

She even calls me charming.

I think I like that.

At some point, someone — Renly? — bellows something about food, so we head off en masse to a curry place near campus. The food is actually pretty good, especially for the price, and they have a decent variety, so we end up ordering a whole bunch of different things to try.

Somehow Margaery and I end up feeding each other morsels of this or that, which is fun, if a tad messy.

(I’m pretty sure she starts it, but I seem to manage to continue it just fine.)

We veer perilously close to a food fight at one point, but manage to edge our way back from the brink before anyone can cry bhaji and let slip the dhal of war. Or something. It’s probably for the best.

After that, it’s another pub, and I’m really starting to wish I didn’t have a lecture tomorrow morning because I’m having so much fun I almost don’t want this night to end.

But they say that all good things do, don’t they?

Whoever ‘they’ are.

When the party finally breaks up, Margaery and I walk the conveniently short distance back to my place arm in arm, leaning on each other more for warmth than for balance. Not feeling the need to talk, we stroll along in comfortable silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts.

I take the opportunity to figure out how I’m doing.

I’m not drunk — the food helped with that — but things are definitely are little fuzzy around the edges. I can’t be sure, but I think Margaery’s in about the same kind of state as I am. Her cheeks are flushed, and she definitely has an increased tendency to giggle, but her eyes are clear and her wit still as sharp as ever.

We’ve both been pretty good about pacing ourselves, I think.

I had fun tonight. I managed to speak confidently, and do a passable expression of someone who isn’t more than likely to freeze in panic if asked to give an opinion. Wonder of wonders, I actually *felt* confident a lot of the time.

(And not even the voice inside my head — blessedly silent right now this minute — can poison that feeling.)

(I won’t let it.)

All in all, I think I’m going to count this experiment as a success.

And the night still isn’t — quite — over yet.

 

* * * * *

 

Margaery and I shush each other exaggeratedly as we make our way carefully up the narrow, twisty stairs to my room, trying desperately not to dissolve into laughter at the faces we’re pulling. Honestly, we probably make more noise than we would if we weren’t constantly admonishing each other to be quiet, but I don’t think we manage to disturb any of my housemates from their slumber.

None of them emerge from their rooms to complain, anyway, so I choose to believe that all is well, all will be well, and all manner of thing will be well.

So there.

“Ow, bright light,” Margaery yelps as I flip the switch. She screws up her face in what I’m pretty sure is an exaggerated grimace, flinging a hand up before her eyes dramatically. I almost expect her to hiss like a vampire in a bad horror movie. I can’t help snickering a little at her antics. “That’s right, laugh at my pain,” she grumbles, but the effect is somewhat spoiled by the way her lips are twitching with suppressed mirth.

“They say that laughter is the best medicine,” I tell her gravely. Well, as gravely as I can manage, which isn’t very. “Hang on a sec; I’ll turn on the bedside lamp.” I do so, and she turns off the overhead light. “Better?”

“Much,” she breathes, then smirks as if she’s amused at some private joke. “Candles would be better still, of course.”

“I’m not lighting candles at this time of night,” I tell her firmly. “We’d probably set the place on fire.”

“You’re no fun,” she says, pouting. She sashays towards me and stands with her hands on her hips, looking up at me with a challenging expression as if daring me to respond.

“I’ll have you know I’m plenty of fun,” I say loftily. “Oodles of fun. A whole plethora of… funs.” I frown. “Wait, that’s not right.”

“Oh, Sansa,” she says, laughing softly. “I do like you.”

(Jeyne looking up at me, her eyes shining like stars as she leans in close and slurs: “You know I like you, don’t you?”)

(I grin happily back at her, nodding enthusiastically and then having to clutch at her for balance as the room dips and reels around me. “I know. And I like you too. You’re my very best friend in all the world.”)

“I like you too,” I tell her, and I’m sure I must be grinning like a loon, but I can’t find it in myself to care.

Margaery likes me!

She leans in towards me, and I think she’s going to pull me into a hug, but instead I feel the softness of her mouth on mine as she presses a gentle kiss to my lips.

I-

Wha-

Huh?

(Her lips are just as soft as I thought they’d be.)

I freeze.

Margaery’s kissing me.

Margaery’s *kissing* me.

Margaery’s kissing *me*.

(Me, of all people.)

I don’t know how long it lasts — maybe a few moments, maybe an eternity — but it’s only when it ends that I can finally breathe again.

I gasp for air like I’ve just run a marathon, like I’m drowning in the depths of her eyes as I stare at her in complete and utter shock.

For her part, she gives a funny little nod and licks her lips, meeting my gaze with a pleased smile.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for hours,” she murmurs.

She has? But… But…

“Why?” I manage to gasp, my voice wavering a little.

(Why would she?)

(“You kiss like a cold, dead fish. You could at least *try* to show some enthusiasm.”)

(Why would anyone?)

“Because I like kissing pretty girls,” she says, simply. (Like it’s really that simple; like it’s ever that simple.) She looks me over slowly, *appreciatively*, her gaze trailing over me like a caress. “And you, Sansa Stark,” she continues, her voice a low, breathy purr. “Are a *very* pretty girl.”

(“You’re so plain. You could at least put on some make up or something; make a bit of an effort. What are my friends going to think? They’ll be embarrassed for me. It’s not even like I can tell them I’m interested in you for your mind.”)

“I-”

My words stick in my throat, that toxic whisper becoming louder, drowning out my own voice. I’m only vaguely aware that there’s a small line forming between Margaery’s brows, her expression becoming uncertain.

“Did I misread this?” she asks slowly, a worried note creeping into her voice. “Did I do something wrong?”

(“You always fuck everything up! No wonder everyone thinks you’re a joke. No one likes you, you know. The only reason they even let you hang around with them is because of me. I’m the best thing you’ve got going for you. Hell, I’m the *only* thing you’ve got going for you. Don’t you dare forget that, you stupid bitch.”)

“N- no,” I manage to stammer out. “It’s not… You didn’t…”

(“What’s that? What are you saying? Speak up, Sansa. I can’t understand a word you say when you stutter like that.”)

(No, I can’t… I can’t do this. I can’t take this anymore. Just make it stop. Make him stop.)

(“God, you sound retarded or something.”)

(Stop it!)

Just stop it.

Just stop…

Just…

Just shut the fuck up, Joffrey! You’re not even *here*. You’re just a bloody ghost; a toxic fucking *phantom* made of nothing more than spite and bile and pettiness and I won’t let you haunt me anymore.

Especially not now.

Especially not when someone thinks I’m pretty, and charming, and fun to be around.

Especially not when that someone kisses me because she just likes kissing pretty girls, not because of anything to do with showing off to so-called *friends* or some stupid power play or putting me in my place.

Someone who does more for me you *ever* did, even though I only met her yesterday.

Something just… breaks inside me. It’s like floodgates under pressure finally giving way, or like scales shattering and falling from my eyes, or I don’t know *what* it’s like, because this is something new and different and I feel…

I feel so fucking *angry* right now that I could scream the goddamned house down.

But Margaery’s still standing there, looking at me with that worried little frown, and I can’t stand to see that kind of doubt in her eyes. *She’s* not supposed to doubt herself. She’s supposed to be poised and confident and just a little bit wicked, and I can’t let this go on any longer.

“It’s alright,” I tell her, and my voice sounds strange in my ears. Lower, maybe, and a little bit throaty. “You haven’t done anything wrong. You just caught me a little by surprise, that’s all.”

“That’s a relief,” she murmurs, and my breath catches in my throat at the sudden darkness in her gaze.

It makes her look like she’s full of secrets.

I think I want to know what they are.

It’s like I’m looking at her with new eyes, hyperaware of every tiny little details. She tilts her head slightly, studying me as I study her, quirking her lips — her soft, gentle lips — in a tiny, lopsided smile.

My own lips tingle, as if her kiss has left behind some kind of imprint or echo.

Maybe it has.

And maybe… maybe it’s not enough.

I want…

I want to feel pretty. I want to feel… desired. I want to feel *special*.

And I want…

Without stopping to think this though, I surge forward, wrap my arms around Margaery and kiss her as if my life depends on it.

She makes a startled noise into my mouth, but then she starts kissing me back, and…

And.

I may not really know what I’m doing, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Our mouths meet in a tangle of lips and tongues, moving, sliding over each other, and somehow I’m tangling one of my hands in her hair, and she’s clutching at my hip, and this whole thing feels a little bit dizzying, a little bit messy and a whole *lot* of amazing and I think I could just about do this *forever*.

I didn’t… I didn’t know it could be like *this*.

Is this how it’s meant to be?

(Is this what it’s like for Daenerys?)

(Is this what it would be like *with* her?)

When we eventually break apart — a lifetime later; not nearly long enough — we’re both panting for breath. Margaery’s eyes are wide, and she’s staring at me with an expression that’s equal parts shock and pleasure.

I can’t help but notice that she looks decidedly tousled.

I wonder what I look like to her right now.

“Where did *that* come from?” she breathes, putting her hand to her chest.

I wonder if her heart is pounding as much as mine is right now.

“Maybe…” My voice comes out high and wavering. I clear my throat and try again. “Maybe I like kissing pretty girls, too.”

Or maybe it’s just her. Maybe it’s not anything from me at all. Maybe it’s the alcohol, or too many conflicting emotions all getting churned up together until I don’t know what to think or feel anymore.

The truth is that I have absolutely no idea whatsoever where that came from.

But I don’t think it’s going away any time soon.

Margaery laughs softly.

“Well, aren’t you just *delectable*,” she purrs, and the sound of her voice *does* something to me, deep inside, the unexpectedness of the sensation making me shiver and bite my lip. She arches an eyebrow enquiringly. “Are you cold, Sansa?”

“Not cold,” I say, and then I just stare, mesmerised, as she slowly reaches out a hand to cup my cheek gently. I make a strange sound, deep in my throat and Margaery’s smile widens.

“I think I can do something about not-cold,” she says.

And then she kisses me again.

 

* * * * *

 

I rise languidly from sleep as if floating slowly up from the deepest depths of the ocean. My limbs feel heavy and boneless, my muscles loose and suffused with warmth. I can’t even remember a time when I’ve felt so relaxed.

No, more than that. Content.

Awareness of my surroundings gradually starts to seep into my sleep-saturated brain, tickling lightly at my senses without any feeling of urgency or need for a response. So I just lie there, happy to let myself rise up to meet the world at my current leisurely pace.

The low murmur of voices wafts up from downstairs. Rays of sunlight play gently on my closed eyelids. The breeze — which always seems to find its way into my room, no matter how tightly I close the window and draw the curtains — whispers over my face, carrying with it the distant hum of traffic from the main road. I feel the slight, reassuring weight of the arm lying across my stomach.

Wait.

What?

One moment I’m still drifting in a pleasant semi-doze, the next I’m shockingly wide-awake, my whole body tingling with adrenaline-fuelled alertness. My eyes fly open, and I look down to see the top of someone’s head — *Margaery’s* head — resting on my shoulder.

Huh?

It’s like my mind just short-circuits. I’m not sure I’m even breathing. All I can do is stare at her, half-expecting her to disappear right before my eyes, like this is nothing but a dream, to be banished by the cold light of day.

But… But she doesn’t. And this isn’t.

It feels — *she* feels — far too real to be nothing but a conjuring of my imagination.

As soon as I think that, my sense of touch seems to go into overdrive. I don’t know how it’s even possible that I didn’t register her presence sooner, because she’s *all* I’m aware of right now. It’s as if the rest of the world has just disappeared.

(Time seems to slow and stretch, my world narrowing until she — her kisses, her touch; the small, soft sounds she makes — fills the whole of it.)

Her hair brushes lightly against my chin as (the soft waves of her hair slipping through my fingers like silk) I move my head. It doesn’t quite feel ticklish, but it’s hovering just on the border.

(Anticipation coiling thick and heavy in the air, a feeling like I’m poised right on the edge of something.) 

The arm she’s draped over my stomach is curled loosely around my body, fingertips (fingers curling around my hip, gripping harder than I would have expected, pulling me tightly against her) resting just over my hip.

One of her legs is tangled between mine, her knee pressing up against my inner thigh (skin so sensitive, the slightest touch making me tremble) and…

Oh god.

We’re not… I don’t think we’re wearing anything, either of us, so (clothes too stifling, too confining, too *in the way*; fumbling inexpertly with buttons and fastenings) it’s just skin on skin, and (barely even register the chill of the air on my bare skin before she’s chasing it away with the heat of her touch) it feels like all the points of contact between her body and mine complete a circuit (bodies pressing together, moving together). I can almost feel the electricity humming beneath my skin, filling me with (need) panicky, restless energy.

I’m almost surprised not to see visible sparks.

I need to get up.

(I want to stay right here.)

I *should* get up.

(I want to run my hands over her skin.)

But how do I do that without waking Margaery?

(I *want* to wake her up and…)

“Good morning,” she says sleepily, lifting up her head to grace me with a lazy smile.

“Morning,” I manage to reply, my voice barely more than a strangled whisper. Despite that, despite the jitters chasing themselves along my nerves and through my mind right now, despite the fact that the two of us are — oh god — apparently naked in bed together after doing who knows what (I know exactly what), my ingrained sense of politeness makes me automatically ask her: “Did you sleep well?”

“*Very* well, thank you.” she murmurs.

She stretches, catlike, and the sudden sensation of her body moving against mine turns my breathing ragged, bringing a flush to my cheeks and making my heart thunder like an express train.

(-arcs through me like a lightning bolt, drawing a sharp gasp from my throat, her eyes darkening hungrily as I shiver-)

Belatedly, I realise that she’s saying something else, and I try to drag my focus back from (last night) wherever it is right now.

“Pardon me?”

Margaery’s smile turns knowing, like she can tell exactly what was going through my head.

“I said: how about you?” she says. “Did *you* sleep well?”

“Um, yes. I think so.”

I’m surprised to realise that’s actually true, despite the fact that I’m really not used to sleeping with someone next to me.

Sleeping with…

Oh god.

Oh my god.

(-need burning through me like wildfire-)

I slept with Margaery.

Unless it was a dream; just a particularly vivid dream brought on by alcohol and proximity and who-knows-what hormones sending my mental circuitry utterly haywire and maybe…

Maybe…

No. That’s not even close to being convincing.

I slept with *Margaery*.

(What’s everyone going to think of me?)

(What’s *Daenerys* going to think of me?)

I-

Whatever the rest of that thought was going to be, it flies right out of my mind when Margaery suddenly moves. She’s lying fully on top of me, looking down at me with the *wickedest* little smile on her lips, and coherent thought is not even the remotest possibility right now.

“Did you have pleasant dreams?” she purrs. I stare at her, wide-eyed, and she laughs softly. “Cat got your tongue?” When I still can’t speak, she brushes a few strands of hair off my face, letting her fingers rest lightly on my cheek. “Do you need me to refresh your memory?”

Keeping her eyes on mine, she arches her neck, bending towards me with infinitesimal slowness. A slow shiver rolls through me as I feel her breath on my lips. My own breath hitches in anticipation, and…

And then I catch sight of my wall clock over her shoulder.

“Oh… Oh *poot*!” I blurt out. Margaery looks at me completely gone out. “I’m late,” I explain. “I should have got up twenty minutes ago. I guess my alarm didn’t go off or something, but my lecture starts in twenty minutes and I’m afraid I need to get up right now this minute.”

“Pity,” she murmurs, sounding disappointed. I half-think she’s going to suggest playing hooky (and she might actually be able to persuade me), but then she obligingly rolls to one side so I can get up.

I scramble out of the covers and discover that, as I suspected, I’m not wearing a stitch of clothing. Feeling utterly, horribly self-conscious, I cross the room as quickly as I can — stumbling a little when Margaery makes a low, admiring sound (but I can’t think about that right now) — and grab my dressing gown from the hook on the door.

I wonder briefly if I should skip the shower to save time, but I dismiss the thought right away. I *need* that shower. I just… I can’t skip it. I’ll just have to be quick. I can do this.

I’m just glad I got my clothes for today ready before I set off for training yesterday. I figured I wouldn’t feel like digging them out when I got home from the pub, especially as it was likely to be late one. Apparently, I was right.

I just didn’t expect (to end up in bed with Margaery)… the rest of it.

“Do you mind if I stay here for a little while longer?” Margaery asks. “It tends to take me a little while to put myself together in the morning, and I don’t want to make you late waiting for me.”

The first thought that pops into my head is that she seemed *perfectly* put together a few moments ago, but I think it’s best to keep that to myself.

“No, that’s fine,” I say distractedly, scooping up my clothes and a bath towel. “Just… make yourself comfortable.”

She laughs, and I don’t have to look at her to know that she’s smirking at me. (I do look back, though, even though I can’t really spare the time, and she most definitely is.)

“Thank you,” she says. “I will.”

 

* * * * *

 

The shakes hit when I’m in the shower.

I’m indulging in a precious minute or so of simply standing there, head bowed, letting the (deliberately) slightly-too-cold-for-comfort water stream over my skin.

(As if it can wash me clean; as if anything can wash me clean.)

I take a deep, shuddering breath, and then the dam breaks.

Margaery and I… We…

Oh god.

An anguished wail starts to bubble up inside me, threatening to spill from my lips. I clap a hand to my mouth to keep it locked safely inside. The last thing I want is for someone to hear me and wonder what’s wrong.

(To ask questions.)

(To *know*.)

I slept with Margaery.

The thought squats there in my mind like a concrete elephant, its gravitational pull bending all my thoughts around it like light around a black hole.

I barely even *know* her! I only met her the day before yesterday. I mean, I like her, but…

(Of *course* I like her; I wouldn’t sleep with someone I didn’t even *like*. That would… That would make me a-)

Wait.

Her.

I slept with a girl. A woman.

But… But… But…

But I’m not a… I mean, I don’t even *like* girls that way. I…

(Jeyne looking up at me, her eyes shining like stars as she leans in close and slurs: “You know I like you, don’t you?”)

(I grin happily back at her, nodding enthusiastically and then having to clutch at her for balance as the room dips and reels around me. “I know. And I like you too. You’re my very best friend in all the world.”)

(“No, I…” Frowning a little, she flails her hands around as if trying to snatch words out of thin air. “I mean…” Suddenly the frown clears, replaced by a soft little smile. “I *like* you,” she says, making an obvious effort to enunciate the words clearly.)

(And then she kisses me.)

(It lands on the corner of my mouth, rather than full on, but her intent is clear.)

((It… She… I…))

(I freeze, caught so completely and utterly off guard that I can barely even process what’s happening. What she’s doing. After a moment, she pulls back sharply, her expression uncertain as she studies my face.)

((I…))

(“I’m… I’m sorry,” she says. “I just-“)

((I can’t…))

(“I’m not like that,” I say, cutting her off before she can finish her sentence. “I don’t… I’m not like that.” There’s a harsh edge to my voice that I don’t even recognise, and part of me wants to stop, to take it back, to wipe away the hurt blooming in her eyes. But instead, still in that same, frozen tone, I find myself saying: “I think I should go.”)

(I can’t. What would my parents think?)

I *can’t*.

My chest hurts, like this roiling mass of emotions has a physical weight and presence, crushing the air from my lungs.

It must have been the alcohol. That’s the only possible explanation for all of this. I mean, last night was the first time I’d done any serious drinking in a while. Quite a long while. (Not that last night *really* counts as serious drinking.) I mean, my tolerance is probably non-existent and I bet the vodka went *straight* to my head. (Except I don’t even have a hangover.)

Anyway, my judgement was pretty obviously *totally* impaired. I’d never do anything like that sober. Never in a million years.

(But I wasn’t drunk at all when I decided to flirt with Margaery in the first place. Was I?)

(And I can remember deciding…)

(I can remember…)

(Oh god.)

(I can remember everything.)

(-the soft swell of her breast beneath my hand-)

(-trailing kisses down my neck; the sudden pressure of teeth-)

I instinctively look down, but of course I can’t see anything from that angle. I step out from under the spray, moving to the other end of the bath, where if I lean a little I can see myself in the mirror and…

There’s a bruise.

Right there at the base of my neck. Undeniable. Unmistakable. Unavoidable.

I slept with Margaery.

(And I enjoyed it. I wanted it.)

I…

I…

I just can’t deal with this right now.

And I’m going to be late!

 

* * * * *

 

I finish my shower and get dressed in record time, thankful beyond all belief that I’m wearing a blouse with a collar. I check my reflection, almost surprised to see that I don’t look any different to how I did yesterday.

God knows I *feel* different.

(Like one of *those* girls.)

Taking a deep breath, I push down my urge to simply flee the house and make myself head back up to my room. It helps that my bag is up there. Otherwise, I have the horrible feeling I’d be halfway to the lecture theatre by now. I try to tread quietly on the stairs, just in case Margaery’s drifted off to sleep again, but she sits up as I creep through the door.

“That was fast,” she says.

I shrug, not really knowing what to say.

“I had to be quick. I don’t really have the time to dawdle.” I hang the damp towel over the rail clipped to the radiator and retrieve my bag from beside my desk. “Um, are you going to be okay here?”

She smiles at me, her expression utterly untroubled by any of the doubts plaguing me, and the sight of it makes something twist inside my chest.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. I’ll probably be up and about shortly, anyway. I need to head back to Loras’ place.” She gives a small, ladylike yawn, covering her mouth with her hand. “Would you mind terribly if I use your shower before I leave? I’m feeling a little…” Looking at me through her lashes in a way that *could* be modest, but really, really isn’t, she lowers her voice to a suggestive purr. “Sweaty.”

I blush and Margaery gives a little satisfied smirk.

I’m beginning to think she actually enjoys doing that to me.

“Um, of course. I’ll, um, just get you a towel. My toiletries are already in the bathroom. They’re the ones in the lavender basket. Do you need a toothbrush? I have a spare here somewhere…” Although I can’t for the life of me think where it might be right now. It’s like my brain has turned to mush and dribbled out through my ears.

“That’s fine,” she says. “I have my own.”

Before I can so much as blink, she rolls out of bed and, completely and utterly unselfconscious of her nakedness, crosses the room and throws her arms around my neck.

“Last night was fun,” she murmurs in my ear. “Maybe we’ll do it again some time.” And then she kisses me.

I freeze.

(My traitorous lips kiss her back.)

“I… I need to go,” I murmur against her mouth. (I try not to think about how good this feels, about how a part of me doesn’t want it to stop.) “I’m going to be late.”

“Well, we wouldn’t want that,” she says, smiling as she releases me and takes a step back. “I just wanted to give you something to remember me by.”

“Trust me,” I say, a little breathlessly, my eyes wandering despite my desperate effort to keep them fixed on her face. “I couldn’t forget you if I tried.”

“Oh, Sansa,” she murmurs. “You do say the sweetest things.” In a brisker tone, she continues. “Now, shouldn’t you be going?”

“Um…” I glance at the clock. “Eeep! Yes, I really should. Goodbye. Um, have a good journey home. And, um…” My mind goes blank. “Goodbye,” I say again.

“Until next time.”

Part of me wants to stop and turn that over in my mind for a few moments (or kiss her again, or take her back to bed and…) but I push that aside, push aside everything except the thought that I absolutely, positively *can’t* be late for my lecture.

That’s the only thing that matters.

(Not the softness of her lips or her wicked little tongue.)

The only thing.

(Not wondering what I’m going to tell Daenerys, or worrying what she’s going to think of me.)

I just can’t handle anything else right now.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for internalised homophobia and slut-shaming

I’m late for my lecture.

I think it’s the first time I’ve *ever* been late. (Although I suppose it’s fitting that one first time should follow another.) Even after the Radford Lights meeting when I didn’t get home until ridiculous o’ clock in the morning (okay, that’s pretty much any of the ones held at Daenerys’ house), I still made it into the lecture theatre with a good ten or so minutes to spare.

And today I’m more than ten minutes in the other direction.

This is so embarrassing.

Rather than taking my usual seat near the front, I have to sneak in through the back doors, wincing at the way they creak. It seems loud enough to echo though the whole of the lecture theatre. In my mind’s eye, I see a roomful of people turning towards me, staring at me, *judging* me (and not just for my tardiness). But when I do risk a quick glance upwards, no one seems to be paying me any attention whatsoever.

I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful to be invisible.

I collect a hand-out from the pile and slink into a seat, pulling out my notebook and pen mostly on autopilot. Despite the evidence of my eyes, I’m still unable to shake the irrational conviction that everyone’s looking at me; that they all know *exactly* what I was doing (Margaery’s eyes gaze holding mine as she trails her fingertips over my stomach, and then lower) last night. I don’t think my face has stopped flushing since I first woke up and realised (the shock of her bare skin against mine) that she was there in my bed.

I bite my lip hard, letting the small pain ground myself in the here and now, an anchor against being dragged away by the tide of memory.

(It’s a bad habit I used to have, once upon a time. I broke myself of it when I broke free of Joffrey. But maybe…)

(Maybe it has its uses.)

I must look so guilty right now.

So very, very guilty.

With a start, I realise that I’m just staring vacantly at the projector screen without really seeing it. I don’t think I’ve taken in a single word the lecturer’s saying. This is ridiculous. If I can’t make myself pay attention, there’s no point in me even being here. I might as well have just stayed (in bed) at home!

I need to focus. No more (memories) distractions. I can do this. I can.

(I don’t know if I can.)

I bite my lip and make myself start writing, even if the most I can manage at first is to scribble down disjointed words that I know aren’t going to make any sense to me in a week’s time. It gets easier, though, and I soon graduate onto what I flatter myself are reasonably coherent sentences. I start to think that maybe I can do this after all, which is obviously just tempting fate, because I pause to shake out a cramp from my hand after a particularly intense bout of scribbling and (her hands on mine, guiding them over her body, showing me how she wants me to touch her) completely lose my train of thought.

(“Sansa, darling.” Margaery’s voice is a low purr, the sound of it making my breath catch in my throat, making me shiver in anticipation. “You’re thinking too much. Let me help with that…”)

I bite my lip again.

This is going to be a long, long day…

 

* * * * *

 

I feel distinctly frazzled by the time the lecturer dismisses us. I’m just glad his hand-outs tend to be fairly comprehensive, with a helpful list of references at the back. God knows I wouldn’t want to try to reconstruct the information from my notes alone. (And yet every detail from last night seems to be imprinted indelibly on my memory.) Unfortunately, the next lecture is one I *will* have to get my head in the game for. Prof Emmett doesn’t believe in hand-outs, and I don’t think he’s updated his slides since the nineteen-seventies. I can’t imagine he’s going to go easy on us because it’s the last week of term, so if I don’t manage to take half-decent notes there, I’m (sinking down her body, trailing kisses on her skin, looking up to see her watching me hungrily) sunk.

Maybe checking my e-mail will help. (Maybe a cold shower would help more, but that isn’t really an option right now.) I glance at my watch. I have just under twenty minutes — plenty of time to get to the computer centre and back. I’ll probably even have some time left over to look at some pictures of fuzzy kittens and clumsy puppies. Maybe that’ll help get my mind (off the fact that I had sex with Margaery last night!) back down out of the clouds.

(I just can’t let the memories go.)

I can only hope.

 

* * * * *

 

This is… not helping.

I stare at the screen as if the display is going to change itself the instant I look away. Maybe that would be for the best. At least then I wouldn’t have to figure out what it means, and what I’m going to do about it. Alas, real life doesn’t work that way. I take a deep breath and read the notification again, carefully. Like I could have missed or misread something. (I haven’t, but then I already knew that.)

It’s a Facebook friend request. From Margaery. It’s time-stamped this morning, so that means she sent it after… after we… after I left for my lecture.

Okay. Okay. It’s just Facebook friends. It doesn’t mean anything. I know it’s just something that normal people do. People who aren’t cripplingly shy, that is. But I can’t help wondering… *Does* it mean something more? Does she want…? Are we…? What is she expecting from me? What does she *want*?

The accompanying message — barely a message at all, really — is no help whatsoever. It’s just six characters: ‘:-x ;-).’ A kiss and a winking smiley. That’s it.

What on earth happened to expressing yourself with words?

I just don’t *understand*. Why does everything have to be so complicated?

(Why did everything seem to simple last night?)

If I wasn’t in public, I’d be very tempted to scream out loud (a little shocked by the raw, animal cries bubbling up in my throat, but I couldn’t keep them back if I tried) in frustration. But I am, so I can’t, and I have to content myself with taking deep, slow, even breaths and chewing on my lip until the urge to scream recedes a little.

Okay. Calm. I’m calm. I can handle this.

It’s just a friend request. It means she wants to be Facebook friends. That’s all. It doesn’t have to mean anything else.

But…

(But shouldn’t it? I mean, after what we did, *shouldn’t* there be something more? Because, if there isn’t, if it didn’t mean anything, then it’s just… It’s just sex. And that means I’m a… that I’m one of *those* girls. And I can’t be one of *those* girls because I’m a *good* girl, and good girls don’t…)

(They don’t…)

(I don’t…)

(But… But I *did*.)

But we slept together.

(I…)

(Oh my god. I had sex with someone I only just met. I was flirting with her practically all evening. I encouraged her! I *kissed* her.)

(I… I *wanted* her.)

(And I *still* want her, even now, even though I know I shouldn’t. Even though I know it’s wrong.)

And if that’s *all* it was, then…

(So that means… That means I’m… I’m…)

(I’m a slut.)

I’m a slut.

No, it’s worse than that. Because Margaery’s a *girl*. (And it isn’t *normal* for girls to have sex with other girls.) So I’m a…

(“You used to hang around with that Jeyne chick, didn’t you? Does that mean you’re a dyke too?”)

I’m a *dyke* slut.

(“Is that why you won’t let me fuck you? Because you’re a freak? Or are you just a frigid bitch?”)

The word sticks in my thoughts like a stone, and I immediately feel guilty for even thinking it. (Like I need any more guilt right now.) Being a l… It isn’t wrong for girls to like girls. I know it isn’t. I know that, and I’d never think badly of anyone else for it. (I’d never think badly of Daenerys.) But it feels…

(I thought I was *normal*.)

It’s different when it’s me.

(Mum and Dad would be so disappointed if they knew.)

But it was probably just the alcohol. Because I’m *not* like that, not really, and booze *can* make you do things you wouldn’t normally do. (Even though I wasn’t all that drunk.)

So I’m not… I don’t really like girls that way.

(I’m not a freak.)

I’m just a slut.

The screen in front of me blurs, and I realise that tears are starting to well up in my eyes. I rub them away with my hand, willing them to stop. I am *not* going to cry in the middle of the computer centre, and I don’t have time to duck into the loos for a private breakdown. It’s… Oh god. It’s almost time for me to head back upstairs. I take a few deep breaths, trying to push away all these distressing thoughts, to shove them to the back of my mind and bury them deep where they can’t bother me.

It’s what I’m good at, after all.

I bite my lip.

Okay. Alright. I can do this. I can keep it together. I *will* keep my mind on the lecture this time, and I’m going to take excellent notes.

I’m *fine*.

Right.

Time to get going.

I go to log out of the computer, but hesitate for a moment. It’s just a friend request, when all’s said and done. I shouldn’t overthink it. There’s no point tying myself in knots over something that’s almost certainly innocuous. Before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I click on ‘accept’.

There. That wasn’t so hard. And now I am, most emphatically, *not* going to think about it anymore. At least not for the next few hours.

Afterwards…

Well, I’ll just have to cross that bridge when I come to it.

 

* * * * *

 

“Sansa, are you alright?”

I jump a mile, startled out of my daze (Margaery pushing me down on the bed/I’m *not* like that; I can’t be) by Shae’s words.

“You scared me,” I say, my voice a little breathless (and not just from the shock). I try to compose myself as Shae studies me, frowning. “Sorry, I was miles away.” (Miles, and a day in the past.) The silent scrutiny is making me nervous, driving me to babble. “I guess I’m a little distracted at the moment. End of term, you know. Lots of stuff to do.” I attempt a smile, but I’m not sure how convincing it is.

“You were staring at nothing,” she says softly.

I flush, embarrassed beyond measure at being caught (remembering/spiralling) wool-gathering.

“Sorry,” I mutter. “I’ll… It won’t happen again.” I close the half-open cupboard door, unable for the life of me to remember what I’d opened it for in the first place. Oh well. If it’s important, I’m sure it’ll come back to me.

Shae makes a small, exasperated noise.

“Sansa, I’m not complaining about your productivity. I’m not Asha. *I* don’t run this place.” Her voice softens, and I can see the frown is one of concern, rather than annoyance. “I’m just worried about you. You looked… upset.”

“Oh. Um.” Not knowing what to do with my hands (skin so soft to my touch/scrubbing my hands raw and still not being able to scour away the feel of her), I start lining up the syrups so all the labels face the same way. “I’m fine,” I tell the bottles, carefully avoiding eye contact with Shae. “Really.”

I suppress a wince at the flatness of my tone. I doubt I’d even convince a rock right now, let alone someone as perceptive as Shae. Sure enough, when I do risk a glance in her direction, she’s eyeing me with obvious scepticism.

“Is that so?” she says.

“Mmm.” I can’t quite bring myself to actually say the word ‘yes.’

Shae watches me, letting the silence stretch out awkwardly, perhaps giving me the chance to expand upon my response. Maybe even to rethink it entirely. If that’s the case, I think she must be onto something because I suddenly have the bizarre, irrational urge to fill the silence by confessing all of my sins. As if unburdening myself of the secret would also cleanse me of its taint.

I’m not naive enough to believe that’s actually how it works.

There’s a sudden flare of pain from my mouth, and I realise I’m chewing on my lip as if it’s bubble-gum, even though I didn’t actually intend to bite it. (I guess some bad habits are frighteningly easy to fall back into.) I make myself stop.

Just as well I won’t be kissing anyone (else) any time soon.

Oh. Oh god.

Shae steps in close and puts a hand on my arm, her eyes searching my face.

“Sansa, what’s wrong?”

I’m relieved beyond measure that we’ve both been speaking quietly enough that I doubt anyone can hear us over the ambient noise. Anyway, Ygritte’s busy flirting with customers under the guise of taking their orders, Missandei’s making drinks, Asha’s in the back and the customers are busy with their own concerns. No one’s paying attention to us.

(Even though I still have the horrible, creepy-crawly sensation of being watched, of judgemental gazes following me around like spotlights of shame.)

(I know I’m being stupid again, but I can’t shake the feeling.)

Shae’s supposed to be going on her break. I feel guilty for keeping her from it (even though she’s the one who approached me) and for neglecting my own tasks. I’m allegedly on clearing up and restocking duty. Which I should really get back to, like pretty much now, so I should probably try to cut this conversation short.

Irrational urges aside, I’m not intending to give Shae anything other than excuses. But when I open my mouth to voice some vague (face-saving lie) denial that anything’s wrong, the truth just slips out.

“I slept with Margaery Tyrell last night.” At Shae’s blank look, I clarify: “She’s Loras Tyrell’s sister. From re-enactment. She came to visit him this weekend.”

“Oh. Okay.” Looking (not disgusted, thank god; not like she despises me) somewhat enlightened, she pats my arm comfortingly. Delicately, she continues: “I, ah, take it that’s not the kind of thing you normally do?”

“No!” I yelp. “No, of course not. I don’t… I’ve never…” I can’t even finish that sentence. “I’ve *never*!”

She arches an eyebrow. “Never with a girl?”

“Never at *all*.” My eyes start to prickle, and I turn away from her, blindly sweeping up the tray of dirty crockery and bending to load it into the dishwasher. Directing my next words to the appliance — it’s easier that way — I mutter: “I… I don’t even like girls.”

Silence.

I finish loading the dishwasher. (I remember last night; an intense flood of images and sensations that I can only banish by catching the ragged part of my lip between my teeth.) I fill the washing tablet and rinse-aid dispensers, and then close the dishwasher door, automatically checking to make sure it’s sealed properly. We really don’t want another flood, especially in the week before the Christmas break. (I remember the look on Jeyne’s face as the stars in her eyes turned to ashes.) Finally, when I can’t stretch it out any longer, I press the buttons to start the programme. (Guilt burns inside me like acid.)

I turn to face Shae, waiting for her to speak. (I dread what she’s going to say.)

She sighs softly, and shakes her head. “This is not the place for such a conversation. You’re coming with me.”

I blink.

“But the place is busy! And we’re not supposed to…”

“I’ll handle it. Go and get your things, then meet me outside.”

When she uses that tone of voice, it’s hard *not* to obey her. She might not have Asha’s bark, but when she wants to be, she can still be commanding in her own way. Anyway, I can’t say I wouldn’t be thankful for a few minutes to pull myself together. I take a deep breath, and resist the urge to bite my lip.

“Okay.”

 

* * * * *

 

“Here,” Shae says, handing me a to-go cup. I take it automatically.

“What is it?”

I sniff the steam curling out of the opening, and my nostrils are instantly filled with the rich, delicious scent of caramel and chocolate. (The smell makes me think of Daenerys, of the passion in her eyes when she said all those wonderful things about me. I wonder what she’s going to think of me now.)

“Caramel mocha,” she says. “If we’re going to be hanging around in the cold, we’re going to need *something* to keep us warm.” She hefts her own cup, most likely containing a herbal tea of some kind. Probably jasmine.

“Um, thank you,” I say, smiling gratefully. “You didn’t have to do that, though.”

She rolls her eyes. “I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. Besides, you look like you need it. You’re very pale at the moment.” She looks me over, frowning a little. “Paler than usual, I mean. And you look worn out.”

I’m sure I must look a fright. Lack of sleep (arching against Margaery as pressure builds inside me) followed by a day spent in a constant, continual state of (arousal/distress) shock hasn’t exactly left me feeling at my best. Normally that would bother me, but today it barely even makes a dent.

I give myself a mental shake.

“At least let me give you the money,” I say, starting to fumble with the zip of my handbag.

“No,” she says, firmly. “It’s my treat. I dragged you out here, after all.” I open my mouth to try one last time, mainly out of a vague sense that I should than because I really feel strongly about it, but she cuts me off before I can speak. “If you ask me whether I’m sure,” she says, tartly. “I am going to be offended.”

I close my mouth again. I know she’s joking, that she’s not really annoyed at me, but I still can’t help scrutinising her face for any signs of real offence. Her expression softens into an almost-smile, and I wonder if I’m really that predictable.

“Let’s find somewhere to sit down,” she says, and heads briskly down the street. I trail after her like a lost puppy.

We end up sitting on the same bench where I had the ‘let’s be friends’ talk with Reza. I hope this isn’t turning into a trend. Last time actually worked out alright in the end, but getting to that point was pretty cringe-worthy and this talk with Shae isn’t likely to be any less so.

I make a mental note to try not to make a habit of this. Even though I will now forever think of this bench as ‘the awkward conversation bench.’

Huh. On a completely random note, I bet there’s a story idea in that.

I take a sip of my caramel mocha, savouring its silky sweetness.

“So,” Shae says. The sound of her voice almost makes me flinch, but I just about manage to suppress the reaction. Something of it must have shown on my face, though, because she adds: “Don’t look so worried, Sansa. I won’t bite.”

Margaery does.

For one horrible, awful moment, I worry that I’ve actually spoken that thought out loud, but Shae’s reaction — or, rather, lack of one — suggests that I managed to keep it within the privacy of my own head. Somewhat self-consciously, I fiddle with my collar, making sure the (love bite) bruise is still safely hidden underneath my blouse.

“I know,” I say, belatedly, feeling that I really should say something. “I’m just a little rattled today, I guess.”

The look Shae gives me says ‘no kidding’ as loudly as if she’d actually spoken the words.

“Because you had sex for the first time, or because you had sex with a girl?”

I choke on my drink. Hearing her say it out loud like that makes it sound so… real. Like this isn’t just something I can bury under layers of denial and never think of again by choice. Like it’s something I’m actually going to have to deal with, one way or another.

When the coughing fit subsides, I take a deep breath and — despite an overwhelming urge to flee for the hills — make myself think about her question.

“Um, both, I think.” There’s a quaver in my voice that makes it sound like I’m on the edge of bursting into tears. I think maybe I am. I almost bite my lip, but manage to stop myself. I take a sip of my drink instead, and I think it actually does help. (Empty calories aside, it’s got to be healthier than hurting myself.)

“Why?” Shae asks, like it’s that easy; like I can just examine my emotions and know exactly what’s driving them. I think about it for a moment, and then realise that I’m overthinking it. (As usual.) Instead, I try to clear my thoughts and just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind.

“I barely even know Margaery. I only met her this weekend.”

“But you like her?”

“Of course I like her!” My words tumble over each other, bursting out almost before Shae finishes the question, jagged with panic at the thought that she might think I’m the kind of person who’d sleep with someone they didn’t even *like*. (Even if I am apparently the kind of person who’d sleep with someone I barely know.) She gives me an odd look, and I try to push the panic down. “I… yes, I do,” I continue, more calmly. “She’s smart and funny and kind and… and…”

“Pretty?”

I remember looking down at her as she sprawled out on the bed, loose-limbed and languorous. Utterly unselfconscious, deliciously decadent; a drowsy, satisfied smile on her lips. The soft waves of her hair spreading out around her head like a halo, and her eyes glittering like jewels. I couldn’t tear my own eyes away.

My cheeks are burning like the surface of the sun. I cough and take another sip of my coffee in a (probably) futile attempt to cover my discomfiture.

“Yes,” I mutter.

Shae opens her mouth to speak, then apparently changes her mind, sipping thoughtfully at her tea instead.

“Do you think you’ll see her again?” she asks after a moment.

I freeze.

(“Maybe we’ll do it again sometime.”)

“I don’t know! I just… I don’t know. We haven’t really talked about it.” We didn’t really talk about much of anything afterwards, but I find myself oddly reluctant to actually say that. I don’t know why. Apropos of nothing, I find myself blurting out: “She friended me on Facebook this morning.”

“I see,” Shae says, sounding thoughtful.

“I accepted,” I say.

“Hmmm,” she murmurs quietly, inscrutably; apparently to herself. Curiosity immediately flares up inside me and I want — no, *need* — to know what’s going through her head right now. What does *she* think it means? I’m trying to think of a way to ask her when she continues speaking. “So you’ve never been attracted to any other girls?” she asks carefully.

(An image flashes into my mind, but I push it away before I can decipher it.)

“No!” My voice cracks a little on the word. I clear my throat and try again. “No, I haven’t,” I continue, in a more level tone. “And it wasn’t attraction, not really. I’m just not attracted to girls.” Shae’s expression turns distinctly sceptical, and my eyes start to prickle again. “I’m not,” I insist hurriedly. “Last night was… It just wasn’t me. It wasn’t the kind of thing I normally do. None of it was. But I was drunk, and Margaery was so nice, and I was angry, and-“

“You were angry?” Shae interrupts, sounding puzzled. “With who? Margaery?”

“No. No, of course not. With someone else.” I wave a hand, dismissing that whole conversational cul-de-sac. I really don’t want to talk to Shae about the voice in my head. Not now, not ever. “It doesn’t matter,” I say firmly. “The point is… I was drunk, and in a heightened state of emotion, and she was *there* and I just… I got confused. That’s all.”

(Yes, confused. Because that’s totally a thing that happens. Isn’t it? I mean, you read about it all the time; people being confused about who they like, or don’t like, or whatever.)

“How drunk were you?” Shae asks, her frown deepening. “Did this Margaery person take advantage of you?”

She looks so *fierce* all of a sudden. I hasten to reassure her, uncomfortably aware that this is how rumours get started.

“No, nothing like that. We were both as drunk as each other. And it was more tipsy, really. We hadn’t been bingeing or anything. We’d been pacing ourselves, and we’d had food, so…” I suddenly realise what I’m saying: I wasn’t *that* drunk, my judgement wasn’t *really* impaired. That maybe I wasn’t really ‘confused’ after all. Except I clearly was, so I’m obviously just not expressing myself well enough. I hurry onwards before Shae can say respond, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind. “Anyway, Margaery’s younger than me by a good few months. If anyone was taking advantage of anyone it was probably me.”

That thought hits me like a lorry, knocking the breath right out of me.

*Did* I take advantage of Margaery? She certainly doesn’t act young. Quite the opposite, really. She comes across as so sophisticated and worldly compared to me that, if anything, she seems older than me.

But she isn’t. So maybe… Maybe I…

Oh god.

I make a strangled noise in the back of my throat, part-way between a sob and a whimper, but Shae is there before I really start to lose it, scooting along the bench to put her arm around my shoulders.

“Shhh, Sansa. It’s okay. It’s alright.” Her voice is soothing, and although I’m not generally one for hugs, the physical contact helps to keep me here, keep me grounded. Even if it can’t ease the slightly sick feeling in my stomach, or loosen the bands clamped tightly around my chest. “I know you. You wouldn’t take advantage of anyone, and certainly not like that.”

“You weren’t there, though,” I whisper. “You don’t know for sure.”

“That’s true,” she agrees easily. “But what I do know is that she sent you a friend request the very next morning. That doesn’t sound like someone who feels like she’s been taken advantage of.”

I blink, processing that.

“Oh.” It’s like a weight’s been lifted off me, the pressure on my chest easing so I can actually take a full breath. “I guess you’re right.”

“I’m always right,” Shae says dryly, startling a laugh out of me. She squeezes my shoulders tightly and then pulls away a little, turning so she can see me.

“Thanks,” I say. I try for a smile, but it’s probably fairly sickly-looking. I feel *exhausted*, like weariness has seeped into my very bones. I drink my mocha, hoping the sugar and caffeine combination will perk me up a little. It hasn’t so far, but I can always hope. I just wish… “I just wish I knew what it all *means*.”

Oh *poot*. I didn’t mean to say that out loud. It must be the exhaustion talking.

“What?” asks Shae. “The sex?” I cringe and nod. She shrugs nonchalantly. “It means what you want it to mean. Both of you.”

My eyebrows shoot up.

“It isn’t that simple!” I protest. It *can’t* be that simple. Can it?

“Of course it is,” she says, like it’s self-evident. “If it was just a night of no-strings fun, or if it could become something more. If you like girls, or if you just like Margaery.”

“But-“

“*Or*, if you’re really not attracted to girls at all and last night was just…”

“A mistake,” I say, firmly, and then feel horribly guilty. I make a mental note never to say anything of the sort to Margaery. I wouldn’t… I don’t want to hurt her feelings.

Shae gives me a look I can’t decipher, studying me until I flush and start to fidget.

“What is it?” I ask.

She sighs. “I want to ask you something, but it’s a little personal.”

“Um, okay.” I take a breath. “You can go ahead and ask. I might not answer, though. If it turns out to be too personal.”

“Fair enough.” She meets my gaze squarely. “Did you enjoy it?”

I thought I was blushing already, but now it feels like my face is on fire. The only reason I’m not squirming uncomfortably is because I’m completely and utterly paralysed by the question.

Did (like every single nerve ending is alight with pleasure, and I absolutely can’t keep quiet) I (Margaery arches her back, writhing and panting, and it’s absolutely *awe-inspiring* to know that I’m the one doing that to her) enjoy it?

“Um…” I want to say no. (But it wouldn’t be true). I *can’t* say yes. (Because if I acknowledge that, if I *accept* that, what else will I have to admit about myself?) And I don’t think Shae is going accept an evasive non-answer like ‘I don’t know.’

After what feels like an eternity of dithering, I close my eyes and nod.

(Maybe it doesn’t count if I don’t actually say it out loud.)

I hear Shae sigh. I open my eyes again but I can’t bring myself to look at her. I look down at the ground instead, drinking my caramel mocha as if that’s the only thing on my mind right now. As if I’m alone with the thoughts I’m very determinedly not thinking.

It doesn’t work.

My mind is a jumbled mess of memories right now. Last night, of course, but also, apropos of nothing, some of my conversations with Daenerys. (I really hope she isn’t disappointed in me.) I even find my thoughts drifting all the way back to school, and Jeyne…

(“Sansa, wait. Just let me… We need to talk about this. I-”)

(“We don’t need to talk about it. We just need to forget it ever happened.”)

I wonder what she’s doing now. Maybe I should try to get in touch with her. Although I’m not sure she’d necessarily be pleased to hear from me.

I’m almost painfully aware of Shae’s silent presence at my side, anxiously waiting for her to speak, yet so terribly afraid of what she’s going to say.

It’s almost a relief when she finally does break the silence.

“Do you regret it?”

Her matter-of-fact tone is actually reassuring. I focus on that, clinging to it like a promise of stability.

“I don’t know,” I say at last. Not an evasion: I genuinely *don’t* know. Earlier today, I would probably have said yes right away; no hesitation, no uncertainty. But now I find that the whole thing seems far less black and white and I feel… conflicted.

“If,” Shae begins, then stops and sighs deeply. “Sansa, don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure I’m the best person to help you right now.” It feels like the ground suddenly drops away beneath me. I must look stricken, or something, because Shae puts her arm around me again, stroking soothing circles between my shoulder blades with her hand. “If this is a sexual identity crisis you’re going through-”

“It’s not!” I practically squeak, staring at her in horror. Because a crisis would imply uncertainty, and I’m *not* uncertain. (Even though I just admitted to myself that I am.) Last night was just a glitch, an anomaly; nothing that’s going to make me seriously question what I know to be true.

(But if it was just a glitch, then that really does make me a slut. Whereas if it wasn’t, if it’s more than that, if it actually *means* something, then maybe… Maybe…)

“I’m not saying it definitely is,” Shae says, disrupting whatever fragmentary thoughts were starting to coalesce inside the maelstrom of my mind. “But you definitely seem troubled right now, and I don’t think I really have the experience to help you though it.” Almost under her breath, she adds. “Not being certain where my affections lie has never been one of my problems.”

Huh. Well, that’s… intriguing. I really want to ask her what she means, but she doesn’t really sound like she wants to talk about it. Not right now, anyway. Maybe another time.

In the meantime, I try to muster up a smile.

“It’s okay,” I say, aiming for positive and upbeat and *better*, but hitting rather closer to wound-too-tightly. “You’ve helped me a lot already. Thanks for bringing me out here — I think I did need to clear my head a little. But I’m feeling better now. I just… I guess I have some thinking to do, that’s all. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, of course, but you don’t need to thank me. I don’t know that I’ve really done all that much.” She sighs, looking at me pensively. “Maybe you should talk to someone who might be more helpful.”

“Maybe,” I mutter. “I don’t know who, though.”

“Asha?” Shae suggests, and then immediately changes her mind. “No, not Asha,” she mutters, shaking her head vehemently. “But how about… Have you thought about talking to… Perhaps Daenerys?”

I stare at her. “Daenerys?” In my mind, I see a pair of intense sapphire eyes, looking at me like they see all the way into my very soul. And then they morph into Margaery eyes, also blue (if not *quite* as blue), looking at me in a way that makes me flush all the way to my hairline.

I shake my head to clear it, which Shae takes to mean a refusal.

“Don’t dismiss it out of hand,” she tells me. “The two of you are… close, after all.” She stops, looking at me a little uncertainly. “Aren’t you?”

“I… I suppose so.” I think she’s actually my closest friend right now. (I just hope she still wants to *be* my friend, when she finds out.)

“Well, then. And she probably has a much better understanding of where you’re coming from.” Shae nods, like that settles things in her mind. “It’s up to you, of course, but I think you should talk to her.”

“Maybe,” I hedge. I’m… conflicted. Deeply conflicted.

While I dither, Shae checks her watch and sighs.

“Time for us to head back, I’m afraid. Are you feeling alright now?”

“I’ll be fine,” I say. I mean, I’m not exactly one hundred percent, but I think I can make it through the rest of my shift without incident. After that…

Well, I suppose I’ll just have to wait and see.

I really do have some thinking to do.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kitty apologises for the gap between the last chapter and this one. She further apologises for the possibility of there being a gap between the next chapters.

“I see someone had a little too much fun last night.”

Asha’s words make me jump like a startled rabbit, almost dropping my apron. I stare at her, wide-eyed and frozen, panic turning my thoughts to chaos.

Is it really that obvious? Can she tell just by looking at me that I’m no longer a virgin? Or that I… I had sex with a girl? Is this what people mean by ‘gaydar’?

“What?” I squeak.

She tilts her head, studying me.

“You’re certainly pale enough. Maybe even a little green around the gills.”

“Huh?” Okay, I’m completely lost. I shake off the paralysis and finish putting on my apron, tying the fastenings in a sloppier bow than usual. I can’t really bring myself to care about that right now, though. Not with Asha being so uncharacteristically sphinx-like.

“I’m saying you’re hungover, Stark,” she explains, sounding amused.

Oh. That’s all she meant? Not… anything else? (Doesn’t she realise? Doesn’t she know? Does she still think I’m a good girl?) I try to pull myself together.

“I am feeling a little under the weather,” I admit, a trifle misleadingly. Much though I would like to claim otherwise, I can’t directly blame my current state of misery on alcohol. Indirectly, maybe, but I have no intention of telling her that.

(In a small, distant part of my mind, I find myself feeling a little — just a little — resentful. Asha said that she’d look out for me last night. Why didn’t she stop me from…? Where was she when I…? No, I’m being unfair. I know I’m being unfair. She did warn me she wouldn’t save me from myself, in more or less those very words. It wasn’t exactly subtle. No, much though part of me would like to, I can’t really blame anyone but myself for last night.)

Asha chuckles, startling me out of my thoughts. She slaps me jovially on the back, staggering me a little.

“You’re a lightweight,” she says, not unkindly. “You want to try to keep up with the rest of us, you’re going to have to work on your tolerance.”

“Maybe,” I murmur noncommittally. Keep up with the hardened LH Soc drinkers? Like Asha, or *Renly*? I think my liver would explode. “Or I could just stick to soft drinks in future.” That would probably be safest all round, really. Less chance of anything… untoward happening.

“Up to you,” Asha says neutrally, then smirks and nudges me. “Although you certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself last night.”

I flinch instinctively, even though there’s nothing in her tone but gentle amusement. To my horror, my eyes start to prickle again.

“I guess so,” I say, sounding distinctly wobbly. The room starts to blur, so I turn away a little, trying to surreptitiously wipe away the threatening tears. Unfortunately, I’m not subtle enough.

“You okay?” Asha actually sounds concerned.

I pretend to straighten my apron, trying to buy a moment or two in which to pull myself together before answering. It doesn’t really help all that much.

“Yes,” I say (I lie), my voice a little more unsteady than I’d like. “I think I might be coming down with something.” Maybe a terminal case of shame. Can you die of shame? I’m really starting to think you can.

Asha unceremoniously yanks me around to face her, scrutinising me until I wish I could just vanish from sight. (I used to imagine being able to do that; being able to just disappear until he and his hangers-on forgot about me. Until they gave up. Until they found someone else to torment. As if sheer desperation was enough to make it happen.)

“You look like shit,” she pronounces firmly.

“Thanks,” I mutter, smiling a little despite myself. Maybe I am coming down with something. Or maybe it’s just the combination of alcohol, lack of sleep and industrial-strength guilt making me look on the outside how I feel on the inside. If that is the case, I must look truly, truly awful.

Asha nods, like she’s just made a decision. “Go home, Stark,” she says.

“What?” I stare at her in surprise. “I haven’t finished my shift yet.”

“I know how to tell the time,” she notes dryly.

“I just had a break,” I continue. “Plus, it’s pretty busy in here.” I marshall my objections, starting to hit my stride. “We probably need all hands on deck. Mr Baelish did say he’d be checking up on, um, peak period turnaround times?” Or something. I have to confess I wasn’t actually paying too much attention to him at the time. I was too busy trying to solve a plot hole in my story. “He won’t be happy if the numbers don’t look good.”

Although I’m sure the numbers are actually fine, and I doubt they’re going to drop significantly with my absence. Especially if Asha manages to chivvy Ygritte into spending less time chatting and more time processing orders.

I’m actually not really sure *why* I’m objecting so strenuously to the idea of leaving early. There’s the money, I guess. There’s not that much of the shift left, but less than an hour’s pay — meagre though that might be — is still better than nothing. I think it’s mostly guilt, though. I just don’t want to drop the others in it. And I certainly don’t want them to think I’m not pulling my weight.

(That I’m not up to this. That I’m weak and pathetic. Not strong enough. Not good enough.)

Not that I *really* think they’ll think that, of course. In fact, I’m sure they won’t. They’re nice people, all of them. It’s more likely that they’d just worry about me. Which just leads to a different flavour of guilt.

“And I’m sure I look worse than I feel. I can work, honestly,” I finish.

I don’t need (or deserve) sympathy right now, and certainly not from Asha, of all people. My suffering is entirely self-inflicted.

“Stop wittering,” Asha tells me. Her tone is blunt, but not harsh. I make myself hold my tongue, even though I can’t stand that she must think I’m totally pathetic. And a babbling fool, to boot. “We can handle it,” she continues. “Anyway, there’s only half an hour of your shift left.” Before I can say anything else, she gives me a gentle — for her — shove towards the back of the shop. “Go on, go. Before you convince me to change my mind.”

I take a deep breath, meeting her eyes with an effort.

“Thank you,” I say softly and — I hope — graciously. I manage to dredge up a smile. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” she says, grinning lopsidedly. “I’m planning on working you extra-hard tomorrow. You’ll be cursing me by the time your shift is done.”

“Sounds fair.” My smile starts to feel a little more natural. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Get out of here, Stark,” she says, already turning away from me. “Hope you feel better soon.”

“So do I,” I murmur, the words fervent and heartfelt.

(I can manage ‘better’ can’t I? Even if ‘actually fine’ seems so far over the horizon I can’t even see it from here.)

So do I.

 

* * * * *

 

The night air is sharp and crisp, a breath of winter chasing autumn’s tail. The chill of it cools my burning cheeks and lifts the cotton wool from my thoughts. It feels a little like home, and even as I shiver and pull my coat tight against the cold, I feel my spirits lift a little at the thought that I’m going to see my family — to be in *Winterfell* — in less than a week.

It almost seems strange to think about going home. I wonder if it’ll feel strange to be back up north again; if the place I grew up in will seem unfamiliar to me after so long away. Or if it’ll be just like I never left at all. I suppose a few months isn’t that long, in the grand scheme of things, and it isn’t like I’ve been out of contact altogether. Or — between the e-mails, Facebook updates and weekly phone calls — at all, really. And Winterfell still *is* home, of course. In some ways I think it always will be. But more and more lately, I’m finding myself maybe, almost, a little bit, thinking of *here* as home, too. I guess that’s normal. I mean, I have a life here, and friends. Why wouldn’t I think of it as home?

I wonder if Mum and D- If Mum will think I’ve changed? Or if she’ll think I’m still exactly the same as I was before I went away? Before I-

Oh god.

What if she *knows*? What if she takes one look at me and figures out what I’ve done (what I feel)? What if there’s some sign, some body language thing or unconscious signal I’m giving out that says… (I’m not a good girl.) I’m not a virgin any more. How am I even going to be able to look her in the eyes? If I can’t — if I blush and stammer and fidget and generally look *guilty* — she’s going to know for sure. At least she’ll know that something’s wrong. If she asks me about it, I have a horrible feeling that I’m just going to break down and confess all. And then…

I don’t know.

(She’ll be so disappointed in me.)

I just don’t know how she’d react.

(She’ll know I’m one of *those* girls. She’ll know that, despite all her attempts to raise me properly, to raise me *right*, I’ve still turned out wrong.)

Maybe she’ll be understanding. Maybe she’ll hold me and tell me everything will be alright, just as she used to do when I was little and skinned my knee. Maybe she’ll help me work through all this guilt and confusion; this muddled lump of *feelings* that’s churning inside me right now. Maybe. But, then again, maybe she *won’t*. (Maybe it’ll be horrible and awkward; maybe everything will be ruined forever.) And I…

I just can’t take that chance.

So, I have less than a week — well, five days — to get it together. Five days to figure out how to process this whole *mess* so I’m not poised on the brink of blurting it all out to anyone who so much looks at me askance. (Five days to figure out how to forget. How to make it all like it never even happened at all. If that’s really what I want. Which… Of course it is. It has to be, doesn’t it? Because the alternative is just unthinkable. Inconceivable, even.) I just wish I knew where to start.

The sudden buzz of my phone almost makes me jump out of my skin. It certainly startles me right out of my thoughts, which, on balance, can only be a good thing. I’m not sure wallowing in my misery is doing me any good whatsoever. Silently thanking the unknown provider of this much-needed distraction, I pull out my phone to find a text from Daenerys.

Oh.

She… She’s worried about me.

My spirits lift a little, and it feels like the metaphorical black cloud hovering above my head thins enough for a few rays of light to shine through.

I guess she must have turned up at Hot Coffee after I left. (I feel a pang of guilt that I completely forgot she said she was going to stop by. Which is probably silly, because it’s not like we had a definite plan to meet up or anything, but I feel it anyway.) I wonder if she asked about me, or if someone — Missandei, maybe? — simply volunteered the information that I’d left early. Either way, it’s sweet of her to check on how I’m feeling.

I stare at the phone for a moment, a (probably fairly daft) smile on my face, before it occurs to me that I really should text her back.

A little clumsily, I pull off one glove, wincing as the cold air nips at the newly-exposed skin. Unfortunately, I can’t really text with gloves on. Not easily, anyway, and not accurately. My fingers are stiff enough from the cold that I’m having trouble even without the glove. Or maybe it’s not that at all. Maybe it’s the fact that what I’m writing — that I’m fine, that I’m just a little under the weather, that everything’s okay — isn’t strictly true. At the very least, it’s misleading. Physically, I’m feeling a little rough, but it’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix. Emotionally, though… Emotionally, I am most definitely, emphatically *not* fine. But it’s not like I can just come out and *say* that, and…

Except…

Except, maybe I can.

Shae *did* suggest that I talk to Daenerys. She said it might help; that Daenerys would be able to help me. (That the two of us were ‘close.’ Whatever that means.) I’m still in two minds about whether or not it’s a good idea, but… (I feel obscurely guilty when I think about confessing to her what I did with Margaery. Guilty in a different way than generally, I mean. It’s not… I can’t… I guess I just don’t want her, of all people, of all these wonderful new friends I’ve made since moving down here, to think badly of me. But…)

But I don’t…

I guess I don’t *really* think she’s going to stop being my friend? Not over something like this? She’ll probably think I should have had more self-control, of course, and maybe that will make her think a *little* less of me. (Imagining even that mild censure is enough to make my breath catch in my throat, but it’s okay. I can cope.) But not wanting to see me again? Not ever? No matter how badly everything goes, I can’t believe (don’t want to believe) *that’s* likely.

Is it?

Panic starts to sink its claws into me, making my chest tighten and my pulse beat out a staccato rhythm, echoing in my ears.

Okay. Deep breaths, Sansa. Think about this logically. Deal with one point at a time.

First, I think it’s pretty safe to say Daenerys won’t think badly of me for sleeping with a girl. That would be silly, wouldn’t it? (And yet, people *have* had sillier, more hypocritical thoughts.) Second, I don’t *think* she’d look down on me for having a one night stand. (Even if I can’t think that phrase without flinching a little inside.) She teases Daario about his flings, but I don’t think she actually thinks badly of him for them. (Unless I’ve completely and totally misread their interactions. Which is, of course, entirely possible, but… I’m not going to worry about that right now.) I know it’s not the same for guys, but I don’t think she necessarily sees it that way. (Not necessarily.) Third: the drinking? Well, she’s not actually teetotal herself, although she might think I should have been able to handle it better. Still, Asha’s said as much and that didn’t really bother me. I can probably cope with hearing the same thing from Daenerys. Which brings me to the real sticking point: fourth, the fact that it was with Margaery.

Hmm.

That’s… I honestly don’t know how she’ll feel about that. (I don’t know how *I* feel about it, and I’ve been thinking about it all day.)

I just don’t know. I mean, she turned down Margaery’s advances (if those were even serious), so maybe she’ll think I should have done. But then again, Margaery and I are closer in age than Margaery and Daenerys. Not that Daenerys is that much older than me, of course, and… and… And I don’t remember where I was going with that, but it doesn’t really matter. Margaery is Loras’ sister, which probably means she falls under the heading of ‘Asha’s friends,’ and isn’t it something of a faux pas to get… involved… with someone on the side of your best friend’s ex? Except I kind of got the impression that she’s still *Daenerys’* friend, even if their friendship seems to be a little, um, adversarial in nature, so… So…

So, this is ridiculous. I’m just chasing my tail, spinning my wheels, going round and round in circles to no end other than working myself into a right old state. I need to stop.

Breathe.

Calm down.

Breathe.

Okay.

Okay, I’m calm. (Ish. As close as I’m likely to get right now, anyway.)

I’m not going to lose Daenerys. As a friend. I cling to that thought — I *have* to cling to that thought — like a lifeline, like it’s the only way to stop myself from drowning in fear and doubt (and guilt and shame and…) So, decision time: do I want to talk to her about this?

After all the dithering and the second-guessing, the decision turns out to be almost easy, in the end. As soon as I ask myself the question, I realise that the answer is yes.

I suppose I’d better text her back before I (lose my nerve) change my mind.

I keep it simple, first reassuring her that I’m just a little under the weather; nothing to worry about really. Which probably isn’t going to actually stop her worrying, especially when I oh-so-casually ask if I can come around to her place. If she’s not busy, that is.

Oh. What will I do if she *is* busy? (If she simply doesn’t have the time — or inclination — to deal with my insecurities and neuroses tonight.) Now that I’ve made the decision to talk to her, I find I’m surprisingly invested in the idea. I- I- I guess we have plans to meet up for movies on Wednesday, but that feels like ages away and… and…

And it turns out I’m worrying for nothing (as is so often the case) because she texts me back right away to tell me it’s okay. ‘Of course,’ she says, like it was never in doubt; like ‘of course’ she has time for me, her friend. ‘Of course.’ (Something eases inside me, a tension I hadn’t even realised was there.) She even offers to come round to my place, but I quickly nix that idea. The last thing I need right now is for her and Farah to have another… disagreement. I do not feel up to playing referee. No, her place is definitely the better option. And if I swing by my house en route to freshen up, maybe get changed, (maybe have a proper shower, rather than the rushed one that was all I had time for this morning), and pick up a few things, she should definitely reach her place before I do.

Okay. This is beginning to look like a plan. I like plans. I can *do* plans. I can do this. I can go to Daenerys’ house and talk to her like a rational adult. I can tell her (what I’ve done) what’s troubling me, and I can ask for her advice. And it will all work out for the best.

It *will*.

(I hope.)

Please don’t let my courage fail me.

(I’m still so afraid of what she’s going to think of me.)

Please let me not make a complete and utter fool of myself.

(Please don’t let her despise me as much as I do right now.)

And please, please, *please* let her still me my friend in the morning.

 

* * * * *

 

“Please tell me you didn’t walk all the way here.”

Those are the first words that Daenerys says to me when she opens her front door. At my rueful shrug, she actually tuts at me, her disapproval plain as she snags my arm and all-but drags me across the threshold into the blessed, *blessed* warmth of the house. I silently give thanks for the marvel that is modern — and *functional* — central heating.

“You should have at least taken the bus,” she scolds as I work my way free of my many, many layers of outerwear. I feel a little like a mummy peeling off its bandages. Or maybe a butterfly emerging from a cocoon.

“I wanted to walk,” I say, my voice a little muffled until I finish unwinding the scarf wrapped around my face. “I felt like some fresh air.”

“Fresh air?” she echoes, disbelievingly. “It’s *freezing* out there.”

“Not quite,” I mutter. 

“And you’re *clearly* not well,” she continues as if I haven’t spoken. I open my mouth to tell her I’m fine, perfectly fine, only to find myself sneezing loudly.

“Excuse me,” say, a little horrified — not to mention startled — at the sound of it.

That wasn’t ladylike at *all*. Instead of seeming disgusted, however, Daenerys just looks even more concerned. She presses a gentle hand to my forehead. (Apropos of nothing at all, I find myself thinking of Margaery’s hands pressing against my skin. Not my forehead, though. Not anything nearly so innocent.)

(And this is completely and utterly *inappropriate*, and I need to think of something else right now this *second* before Daenerys takes one look at me and just knows, somehow, and…)

(Chaste thoughts. Calm thoughts. *Appropriate* thoughts.)

“No fever,” she murmurs, more to herself than to me. “Although you are a little flushed…” (I am somehow entirely unsurprised.) Lifting her hand from my forehead, she looks me up and down, frowning a little. Suddenly, she asks: “Have you eaten?”

The question throws me a little, and I have to think about my answer.

“Um, not really.” I didn’t have time for breakfast, had no real appetite for lunch and kind of forgot about dinner. As if to reproach me for not taking care of its needs, my stomach chooses that moment to let out an embarrassingly audible rumble.

God!

First the sneezing, and then this. (Not to mention yesterday’s betrayal, with Margaery. And today’s reactions to yesterday’s… activities.) When did my body become so… so… *rebellious*? Aside from the blushing, I swear I used to be in control of it, and not the other way around.

(So what’s changed? What’s different now? What’s new?)

“Okay, that settles it.” Daenerys turns on her heel, striding determinedly further into the house. I can’t help but be drawn along in her wake.

“Settles what?” I ask, more than a little confused.

“I’m going to feed you,” she says, flashing me a grin over her shoulder as she disappears into the kitchen. “Now, sit down before you fall down. This won’t take long.”

I hear the fridge (or freezer?) door open; the sounds of her rummaging around in there.

“Um…” ‘This?’ This… what? Is she going to cook for me? Did I…? “Did I interrupt your dinner?” I call to her, suddenly stricken. “I’m really sorry if I have. I didn’t want to impose or anything. You should have said if-“

“You didn’t interrupt anything, don’t worry,” she says reassuringly. “I — apparently foolishly — assumed you’d already eaten, so I was just going to heat something up for myself. I had plenty of time to do so before you got here, I just didn’t get around to it.” There’s a short series of beeps, and then the familiar — perhaps all-too familiar since becoming a student — humming of the microwave. “I think you need this more than I do, though.”

“I can’t take your dinner!” I yelp, horrified.

She emerges from the kitchen, grinning a little, presumably at what I can only assume is a highly comical expression on my face. Or maybe it’s at the way I squeaked.

“You’re not taking my dinner,” she says, her voice somehow managing to be equal parts soothing and amused. (Fondly amused, perhaps.) “There’s plenty more where that came from, don’t worry. I just meant that you can have the first portion, that’s all.”

“I can’t-“

“I insist,” she says firmly, overriding my objection. She starts to say something else, then stops, looking a little uncertain. (When did she start being uncertain around me? I’m sure she wasn’t when we first met. She was always the very picture of confidence and poise. I think it started after… Is it because of what happened with Reza? Have I caused this? Or was the uncertainty always there, and it’s only now that she’s started trusting me enough to show it?) “Unless you’d rather order take-away, or something?” she asks.

“No, that’s fine,” I say. “As long as you’re sure there’s enough for you, I’m sure it’ll be fine.” A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Um, what exactly were you planning to eat?”

She stares at me for a moment, and then bursts out laughing. After a brief moment of confused hurt (is she laughing at me?) I find myself smiling in response. Not for the first time, I realise how truly beautiful she is when she laughs.

“I suppose I should have told you that before,” she says drily, shaking her head. “It’s couscous with lamb and vegetables. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine,” I say, but that seems a little too lacklustre so I add: “It sounds good.” My stomach rumbles in agreement, possibly at the heavenly aroma wafting forth from the kitchen. All of a sudden, I’m *starving*. I guess going for most of a day without really eating will tend to do that to you.

Daenerys returns my smile, but then her expression sobers.

“So,” she says. “Now that’s settled, what did you want to talk about?”

“I-“ The words stick in my throat and I can’t bring myself to tell her. Not yet. Not right now. I will, I swear, but not now. “Do you mind if I wait until after dinner?”

“Not at all,” she says, her voice soft and her demeanour back to one of concern. “Whatever you need, Sansa. I’m here for you, okay?”

“O- okay,” I manage. And, almost surprisingly, I find that I genuinely, truly believe that. At some point between deciding on this course of action and actually speaking to her, I’ve actually come to accept that I’m not going to drive her away. Not like this, anyway. “Thank you,” I say, my voice stronger, reflecting my sudden confidence.

“You’re welcome,” she says. “But you don’t need to thank me. It’s what friends do.” We smile at each other for a moment, then she tilts her head enquiringly. “So,” she continues, in a conversational tone. “I forgot to ask on Saturday, but how was Frozen?”

I can feel my face light up.

“It was *amazing*. I already bought the soundtrack. I really liked…”

She smiles fondly at me as I chatter enthusiastically, and that seems to be the thing that makes the last piece click into place, certainty settling over me like a mantle.

This was definitely the right thing to do.

 

* * * * *

 

“This is really good,” I say, tucking into the couscous with gusto.

Daenerys looks up from her own bowl, smiling brightly.

“Thank you,” she says, sounding a little proud as she adds: “I made it.”

“I-“ I only just stop myself from saying that I didn’t know she could cook, worried that would sound like I’m judging her because the vast majority of food I’ve had at her place has been in the form of snacks, ready-meals and take-away. I’m not, though. I’m really not. “I’m impressed,” I say instead.

She laughs. “You don’t have to be. It’s pretty easy to make, not to mention the fact I cheat horribly.”

“You cheat?” I echo, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I use pre-chopped vegetables, cubed lamb — rather than on the bone — pre-made sauce and herb mixes and, the greatest sin of all, packet couscous. It takes a grand total of four minutes to cook, and doesn’t even need soaking overnight.” She shrugs, grinning ruefully at me. “My grandmother would have a fit if she knew, but I have neither the time nor the patience to do it the ‘traditional’ way.” I can practically hear the quotation marks around ‘traditional.’ “Anyway, what she doesn’t know won’t earn me a lecture.”

“Oh.” I absorb this rare titbit of information about her family, resisting the urge to ask for more. I don’t want to upset her (or make her clam up). “Well, cheating or not, this is delicious.”

“Thank you. I’m glad you like it.” We eat in silence for a few moments and then, apropos of nothing, she blurts out: “My father was Algerian. Berber, actually; hence my unusual name. His parents are… pretty traditional, especially about food. They own a little restaurant.”

I just stare for a second, so overwhelmed by the shock of her actually volunteering information about her family that it takes a moment or to for me to actually process the information itself. Then, I find myself focusing on one word in particular, a word that resonates through the aching hole in my chest; the one I don’t think is ever going to close.

“Was?” I ask softly.

It’s clear from her expression that she understands what I’m asking. She looks down, keeping her eyes firmly on her food.

“My parents died in a car accident when I was very young. My brother and I were raised by our maternal grandparents.”

Oh. Oh, Daenerys… My heart goes out to her. I want to take her hand, maybe even hug her, but somethings stops me from offering that comfort. Maybe she won’t want it. (Maybe my reactions are still all over the place from last night and it’ll get… awkward.)

In the end, I settle for simply saying, softly: “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you,” she says, after a moment. “But it’s okay. It was a long time ago.” She smiles at me, but it’s a wan and watery thing; a pale reflection of her usual brilliance. “I’m fine,” she continues unconvincingly. “I don’t even remember them, not really.” She takes a deep breath. “Anyway, we should eat our dinner before it gets cold.”

Not quite an order, but definitely stronger than a suggestion. If that’s not a sign that she wants to change the subject, I don’t know what is.

“Okay.” I take another spoonful of the still piping hot couscous, but hesitate before putting it in my mouth. “If you ever want to talk about it you can always talk to me. I’m not saying you have to, or even that there is necessarily anything to talk about, but you can. About anything.”

Her smile brightens until it’s like looking at the surface of the sun. (I love her smile.) Blithely disregarding her own advice, she sets her spoon aside and leans forward to cover my hand with hers. (My heart stutters at the contact. I wait with trepidation for the flood of memories to start but, surprisingly, I stay right here in this moment.)

(Why, then, do I feel so breathless?)

“I know, Sansa, and thank you. That means a lot to me.” She squeezes my hand, once, then releases it, picking up her spoon once more.

(Once her skin no longer touches mine, I can breathe again.)

We both make short work of our food, letting silence settle comfortably around us while we eat. When we’re done, Daenerys gathers up the bowls and spoons before I can so much as think about offering to help clear up.

“Would you like dessert?” she asks, pausing in the doorway to the kitchen. “I have chilli-chocolate ice cream, mint-sherbert sorbet and…” Her lips quirk upwards in a pleased smile, her eyes twinkling in a way I don’t understand until she adds: “There may also be a lemon cake in the cupboard.”

She remembered. More than that…

“Did you get the lemon cake especially for me?” I can’t help asking. I mean, I know she isn’t a fan of them, so…

“I take it that’s a request for cake?” she replies, completely ignoring the question. Well, that’s answer enough I suppose.

“Yes, please,” I say fervently. I am feeling a little full from that generous portion of couscous, but I can definitely make room for dessert. “And thank you.”

(“Do you really think you should have a dessert? I warn you now, I am *not* going to put up with having a fat girlfriend.”)

(Shut up, Joffrey.)

Daenerys’ company, delicious dinner and now lemon cake? This day is definitely taking a turn for the better. The only thing missing is…

“How about a hot drink to go with it? I got some more of that caramel hot chocolate you like.”

“I would love some of that, thank you.” I beam up at her, so full of warmth and happiness that it’s a wonder I don’t just melt. “You’re so good to me, Daenerys. I couldn’t ask for a better friend.”

“Oh, I’m just trying to be a good host,” she says lightly, but there’s something uncertain in her eyes; sudden awkwardness in the way she holds herself. “Anyway, I’d better get started on those drinks. You just sit right there. It won’t be long.” She hurries into the kitchen before I can ask what’s wrong.

“Do you need some help?” I call out instead. Maybe I can ask about it over dessert. She might feel more like talking then.

“It’s okay, I’ve got it,” she calls back. A short while later, she returns with a heavily laden tray. I notice that she’s having chilli-chocolate ice cream and, by the looks of it, either a slightly frothy flat white or a slightly flat latte. “There you go,” she says, placing my plate and mug in front of me. It’s all I can do not to fall on the lemon cake like a starving wolf, but I make myself wait until she’s seated and has her spoon in hand before picking up my fork.

The cake is moist and light, melting in my mouth like the fluffiest of new-fallen snow, the tartness of the lemon perfectly cut by the sweetness of the crystallised sugar. It tastes like… There’s actual lemon zest in this! And at the centre — oh, the centre — is a thin layer of treacle-smooth lemon curd that makes my tastebuds go into raptures. This isn’t just bog-standard supermarket cake. I think this might have actually came from a proper bakery. I make a small sound, deep in my throat, almost a moan.

I’d probably be horribly embarrassed if I wasn’t too distracted by this wonderful cake.

“I take it that means you like it?” Daenaerys asks, looking amused and pleased. And also maybe a little flustered, but I’m a little too distracted to really puzzle out the reason for that.

“It’s *heavenly*,” I breathe, when I no longer have a mouth full of delicious, delicious cake. “Thank you so much.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says, laughing a little. “I’m glad you like it.”

“Oh, I do,” I say fervently, wasting no time in scooping up another forkful. “I really do.” I’m sure my mum would have something to say about the unladylike way I’m devouring it, but I really can’t find it in myself to care. It’s only when it’s gone that I start to wish I had taken my time and made the experience last a little longer.

“You practically inhaled that,” Daenerys murmurs, looking at me with something like awe.

“Sorry,” I mutter, my cheeks reddening. “It was just so wonderful.” I sigh, looking a little forlornly at the empty plate and having to actually struggle with myself not to lick up the few stray, scattered crumbs.

“Would you like another piece?”

Yes! A thousand times yes! I would *marry* her for another slice of that cake.

Um.

I’m not sure where that came from. But…

“I probably shouldn’t,” is what I say out loud.

“You’re ill, though,” she says gravely, although her eyes are sparkling with amusement. “You probably need the vitamin C. Anyway, you wouldn’t want the rest of it to go to waste, would you? I mean, *I’m* not going to eat it, and it’ll only have gone stale by the time you come round on Wednesday.”

“Oh, well, when you put it like that…” The words are out of my mouth almost before she’s finished speaking. “I would love another slice, thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

I eat the second slice more slowly than the first, taking the time to savour every bite like the little pieces of paradise they are. It’s still an effort to make myself actually converse like a proper guest, rather than just focusing all my attention on the cake.

“I have to ask,” I say. “How on earth did you manage to get hold of an artisanal cake at this time of night?”

Because I’d stake my life on the fact that this was fresh-baked today. She didn’t have nearly enough time to bake it — and, anyway, she says she’s not really one for baking — and if she was getting it for Wednesday she’d buy it on the day. Wouldn’t she?

“Oh, I have my ways,” she says, her tone mischievously. “You can’t expect me to give away all of my secrets at the drop of a hat. How else can I keep you interested in spending time with me?”

“I’ll always be interested in you,” I blurt out, and then flush. “I mean, in spending time with you. Because we’re friends. And… And I’m just going to stop talking now.”

Why do I always manage to put my foot in it?

To take my mind off my embarrassment — and because it’s *divine* — I focus on enjoying the remaining lemon cake. Not that there’s all that much left of it by now.

“So,” Daenerys says, after few moments of awkward silence. “Speaking of talking: what’s on your mind, Sansa? What did you want to talk to me about?”

Oh. Oh, right. The reason I’m here in the first place.

My mind goes completely blank. I somehow manage to make myself look at her and try to speak.

“Um…” is as far as I get before I stall out, completely at a loss for words.

Where do I even begin?


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay between chapters. Real life, in the form of my wife having major surgery recently, got in the way of writing a little. However, I'm hoping to be able to resume regular updates from here onwards.

“Sansa?” Daenerys says, as I just stare at her blankly. The sound of my name snaps me out of my paralysis.

“Um,” I say again, and then take a sip of my hot chocolate in a vague, vain attempt to cover my confusion. Except I’m apparently too wound up to even drink successfully right now and end up choking and coughing and spluttering as I accidentally inhale some of the hot liquid. I’m distantly aware of Daenerys asking if I’m okay, if there’s anything she can do to help, but answering her is a little beyond me right now. It’s just about all I can manage not to spray hot chocolate all over her nice living room. At least I hope I’m managing that much. Fortunately, when the spasms ease enough for me to surreptitiously scrutinise the place, it seems to have escaped unscathed.

So does Daenerys, thankfully.

At some point she must have gotten to her feet, because now she’s standing over me worriedly, hands outstretched as if I’ve caught her in the act of reaching out for me.

“Can you breathe? Do you need me to pat you on the back? Do you want some water?”

“I’m fine,” I gasp, my voice a little raspier than usual. “Sorry. I guess it just went down the wrong way. Some water would be great though, if you don’t mind.” Hopefully it will ease my scoured-feeling throat a little. And, more importantly, I’ll have a moment to pull myself together while Daenerys is fetching it for me.

“Coming right up,” she says.

By the time she returns with a glass, I’m more or less calm and composed again, even if that is largely through an effort of will. I’m horrendously embarrassed, though, and flushing so hotly that I’m almost surprised that the water doesn’t immediately start to boil at my touch.

“Thanks,” I croak, then take a slow, careful (*very* careful) sip. It seems to help. Well, it helps my throat, at least. The rest of it… I’m not sure there’s any helping that. “Sorry about that,” I say, smiling ruefully up at Daenerys. “I don’t normally fail at drinking.”

Which, of course, reminds me of yesterday, and of the different kind of epic drinking fail I managed then. I have a wobbly moment at the thought, but this time I manage to keep it together.

“You don’t need to apologise,” Daenerys says firmly. “Just take it easy, alright?” She laughs a little. (Perhaps the sound is a tiny bit higher pitched than usual, but it’s hard to be sure.) “For a moment there, I thought I was going to have to give you mouth to mouth.”

Oh. My. God. (Is she *trying* to make me choke again?)

I try to speak, but my mouth isn’t co-operating right now.

(I remember Margaery’s lips, gentle or demanding as the mood took her, kisses sweet as ice-wine and twice as dizzying.)

(Would Daenerys’ lips be as soft as Margaery’s on mine?)

Breathe, Sansa. Just breathe. Stop daydreaming and focus. And don’t say or do anything stupid.

(Anything else stupid, that is.)

I take another (careful) sip of water and try again. “Why don’t you sit down?” I manage a smile. “Looking up at you is starting to give me a crick in my neck.”

“I suppose it must be a novel experience for you to have to look up at me,” she says lightly, although there’s still concern in her eyes.

“A little,” I agree (not-not-*not* thinking about gazing up at Margaery as she gently pushed me back onto the bed).

“You’re sure you’re alright?” she asks softly.

“I’m fine,” I assure her, trying to be as convincing as I can. “My pride may be a bit battered,” I add ruefully. “But I’m not in any danger of choking again, don’t worry.”

“Alright, then,” she says softly, and sits down again beside me.

(She’s a little closer than she was before, her knee accidentally brushing mine as she finds a comfortable position on the worn cushion. I suppose she wants to make sure she’s close enough to do something if I start choking again.)

I take another small sip of water, then put the glass aside in favour of my hot chocolate. As flustered as I am, I really need the comfort of something hot and sweet right now. Fortunately, this time I manage to actually drink rather than inhale. The hot, syrupy goodness fortifies me as it slides smoothly down my throat, soothing away some of my tension as it bolsters my resolve.

Apparently I can find courage in a mug as well as a glass.

Okay. Alright. I can do this. I just need to… to ease into the subject. Maybe if I start with the drinking and then just… work my way up to the rest of it.

I take a deep breath.

“I slept with Margaery at the weekend!”

Or… Or I could just blurt it out like a fool.

Like I just did.

Horrified, I clap my hand to my mouth. It’s too late now, of course, too much like closing the stable door after the horses have already bolted, but the gesture comforts me a little.

“I’m kind of freaking out about it,” I mumble, the words muffled but intelligible. Just in case she *hasn’t* already noticed my state of extreme discombobulation.

I must look ridiculous, but it takes more effort that it should to make myself pull my hand away from my face. Conflicting urges pull at me, making me feel like I’m being torn in two. Paralysis or flight? Keep still and silent, eyes fixed firmly on the ground (be passive and inoffensive) and hope Daenerys decides to ignore my confession? Or spring to my feet and can flee far enough away from here to escape the impact of my conversational bomb?

At least for the moment.

But I know better than to think that either of my usual (learned responses) reflexes will help me here. The words are out there now, not just an elephant in the room but a whole darned menagerie, and it’s too late to take them back or pretend that I was only joking or… or… (As if anyone would joke about something like *this*.) Anyway, I *wanted* to talk about this. That’s why I came here tonight, after all. So, now it’s time to deal with it.

I make myself pull my hand away from my mouth and look at Daenerys.

She’s just sitting there. Frozen. Staring at me like I’ve just grown a second head. I wait for her to say something, anything, but she…

Just.

Keeps.

*Staring*.

“Um…” My voice seems loud in the silence. It feels awkward and strange, like it doesn’t even belong to me. I try to shake the feeling off. “Did you hear what I said?” There’s a lump in my throat, so I have to swallow before I can continue. “Do… Do you want me to leave?”

That finally gets a reaction, making her jump as if something’s stung her.

“What? No! No, of course, not.” Suddenly her hand is gripping mine as if she’s prepared to physically stop me from running away if necessary. “Why would I want…?” She shakes her head. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to… I just… You took me by surprise, that’s all.”

Her smile is a faint echo of earlier, looking more stunned than anything approaching happy, but seeing it helps a little, helps to settle some of the jitteriness inside me. I can’t quite manage to smile back at her, but I think — I hope — that I’m not looking quite so much like a scared rabbit any more.

“Sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to just… I wasn’t planning to blurt it out like that. I was going to work up to it, but I didn’t know how.” I make myself stop rambling before I can fall into full-on babble mode. “Sorry,” I repeat.

“Sansa, it’s alright,” Daenerys says soothingly, giving my hand a gentle, comforting squeeze. She sounds like she’s regained her own composure, which I suppose is a good thing. “You don’t have to apologise, not for this and not to me.” She pauses for a moment, and then continues in a tone so neutral it must be deliberate. “I didn’t know you were attracted to women.”

I can feel my face crumple.

“I’m not,” I practically wail. (No, not practically.) My eyes are burning with the tears I’m fighting to hold back, the room swimming before me as I start to lose the battle, if not the war. The next thing I know, I’m in Daenerys’ arms, and she’s holding me close as she makes soothing noises.

“You can cry if you need to,” she says softly. “It’s just you and me here, and I’m not going to think badly of you.” It’s like she knows what I’m thinking. “I could never think badly of you, Sansa. I’m here, and it’s all going to be alright. I promise.”

Even though I know there’s no way she can really make that guarantee, somehow I find myself believing her. Believing in her. And that’s the thing that finally breaks down my defences, bursting the floodgates wide open so that all I can do is cling to her and sob my heart out.

I don’t know how long I cry. Long enough to make my face feel puffy and my eyes sore, for my handkerchief to be sopping wet. And, once I’m all cried out, I’m somewhat startled to realise I actually do feel a little… better? Lighter, maybe. The storm has passed and I’m still here. And Daenerys is still here with me, her arms around me like a barricade, keeping the rest of the world — with its judgement and scorn — at bay. I instinctively snuggle deeper into her embrace, but then awareness catches up with me, making me jerk upright like a jack-in-the-box lest before this starts to get… awkward.

“Are you okay?” Daenerys asks, letting her arms fall away so I can sit up straight. (I immediately find myself missing the comfort of being held, but I push the thought away before I can do or say something embarrassing. I don’t want her to think I’m clingy.)

“Better, thank you,” I say, giving her what’s probably a fairly watery smile. “Although I must look a total fright.”

“You look… fine,” she says. I can tell by the hesitation that ‘fine’ wasn’t the word she was originally going to say. I’m sure she’s just being polite — no, not polite, *nice* — but that doesn’t bother me. If anything, I appreciate the attempt at reassurance. It’s what friends do, after all.

I mop at my face with my handkerchief, but it’s a futile effort. The most I can do is spread my tears around a little. Daenerys reaches over to the table (her knee brushing mine again as she leans back) and snags a box of tissues, handing them to me.

“Here you go,” she says. “These will probably be more helpful.”

“Thank you.” I start to shove my handkerchief in my pocket, then hesitate as it squishes wetly.

“Let me take that.” Before I quite know what’s going on, Daenerys has gently pulled the sodden square of cloth from my hand. “I’ll put it on the radiator to dry.”

“But- But you can’t just… I mean, it’s *wet*,” I stammer, unable to fully articulate my horror at the fact that she’s handling something I’ve wiped my nose with.

She laughs. “I’ve dated girls, Sansa. I can handle a little wetness.” I make a slightly strangled noise, and she stops, looking uncertain. “Sorry. That was probably inappropriate.”

“It’s alright,” I say, feeling a little short of breath. “I’m not” — (remembering the feeling of fingers gliding over damp skin) — offended or anything.”

“Good.”

She crosses the room to hang my handkerchief on the drying rail hooked over the radiator, giving me a little space to tidy myself up without her eyes on me. I do the best I can without water and a mirror. (Part of me wonders if I should excuse myself to the bathroom for a few moments, but I’m afraid that if I leave the room she’ll change her mind about not wanting me to leave. I know it’s silly, but I can’t help it.) By the time she rejoins me on the sofa, I’m feeling almost human again.

She looks at me expectantly. I look at her. We both choose the same moment to take a deep breath, then pause, each waiting for the other person to speak. Another exchange of meaningful glances, and then we both laugh.

It helps, I think. Certainly, it breaks the tension that was starting to build again in the wake of the release provided my crying fit.

“So,” Daenerys says, as I pull my thoughts together. “You and Margaery.”

I wish I knew what she was thinking right now. Does she disapprove? Approve? (Strange. It almost seems like the second one gives me bigger butterflies than the first.)

“Yes,” I say, answering her as if she’s asking me a question, rather than making a statement.

“But… you’re not attracted to women?” Not only is that actually a question, it’s hesitant, almost reluctant. Like she doesn’t *want* to ask. And now there’s something in her voice, a note I can’t quite place.

(If I didn’t know better, I’d say it almost sounds like… regret?)

“No,” I breathe, shaking my head for emphasis. But my lips, traitors in so many ways this past day or so, continue shaping words without my choosing to speak. “At least,” they say, replacing something definite and definitive with treacherous, dangerous uncertainty. “I didn’t think I was…”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I want to call them back. But I can’t. I remember Shae asking me if I… if I enjoyed my night with Margaery, and having to admit that yes, I did.

I did enjoy it.

And just because I didn’t say that out loud, doesn’t make it any less true. Much though part of me — a large part — might wish otherwise.

So, what does it mean?

As if she can read the turmoil inside me, Daenerys takes my hand in hers, the light contact keeping me from spiralling off into confused panic.

“Let’s start with that,” she says, and I’m thankful beyond measure that she sounds more matter-of-fact than anything else. “You’ve never felt attracted to women at all? Not even a little?”

“I don’t…” Think so? Know? Want to talk about this any more? But there’s something, a thought bubbling up from somewhere deep in my mind, that makes me stop myself before I can finish the sentence. “My best friend at school kissed me once,” I say slowly. It feels almost as if I’m discovering the words rather than speaking them, like someone else is speaking though me.

Daenerys’ gaze sharpens, but I don’t know what she sees. (I’m not sure I know anything any more.)

“How did you feel about that?”

I shrug, mentally abdicating responsibility for my part of this conversation. I’m… tired. All this running round in circles I’ve been doing trying to figure out what all of this means, if it makes me a bad person or whatever…. It’s exhausting. I know I keep saying this, or at least thinking it, but I think I really am done with second-guessing myself. At least for now, for this evening, for this conversation.

So I stop thinking about what I’m going to say, and just say it.

“Surprised. Confused.” Without a conscious choice, my thoughts drift back to that fateful night. Giggling with Jeyne, both of us more than a little drunk on those deadly vodka-tonics. The soft brush of her lips against the corner of my mouth. And only after it was already over, as the shock started to fade, did I realise the sheer depth of emotion bubbling up inside of me. I was… “So very *angry*.”

“Angry?” Daenerys repeats.

She looks… not surprised, but actually a little sad. Maybe even disappointed. On one level that realisation tears at my insides like knives, but there’s not the most important thing going on in my head right now, because for the first time since it happened, I’m finally, fully, really letting myself *remember*. Not just what happened, what I did, but how it made me *feel*.

And yes, one of the things I felt was anger. No, not just anger. A rage like I’d never felt before, because… Because…

“It spoiled *everything*!” I burst out. “*She* spoiled everything. I was trying so hard, and it was *working*! It was working. But Jeyne was my very best friend in all the world, so I thought it was safe to… I mean, it’s normal to be close to your best friend, to feel that… What’s friendship anyway, if not a kind of… of love? And girls think other girls are pretty all the time. It doesn’t have to mean anything else. It doesn’t have to mean that they’re… That I’m… She was my *friend*. I was fine, and everything was fine, and we were going to be friends forever and ever and that was enough for me. It was going to be enough. But then… Then she kissed me. And I couldn’t… I couldn’t… I…”

My chest is heaving, and I’m gasping for breath like the air is running out.

I feel it all over again, that shuddering, slip-sliding sensation of realising the foundations of my world are built on sand, not rock, and the whole towering edifice is shifting beneath my feet. Now, like then, I want to lash out. To pull my hand free of Daenerys’ grip, to push her away. To tell her that we’re never going to talk about this again. To get up and leave, if necessary; to pretend that this whole conversation — this whole evening — never even happened.

And, also like then, the words just keep falling from my lips like icicles; too heavy to defy gravity any longer. They just keep coming whether I want them to or not.

(I don’t know what I want any more.)

“I couldn’t be strong, knowing she felt like that about me.” It feels like I’m shouting, like my lungs are straining with effort, but I can barely even hear myself over the thunderous pounding of my heart. “I couldn’t keep… It wasn’t going to be enough any more. Not when I knew that she… That she felt… like that.”

(That she felt the same as me.)

That she felt the same.

The urge to flee boils up inside me, almost overwhelming.

“And I couldn’t just… I couldn’t… I can’t…” I laugh suddenly, the sound high-pitched and hysterical, nails on chalkboard even to me. “I’d worked so hard to fit in, to be a good girl, to be *normal*. And then she just…”

I shrug helplessly, words finally failing me.

I don’t think I can do this.

I start to pull away…

(A friendship broken, maybe beyond repair; every step further away from her like walking barefoot on broken glass.)

(I’ll survive this, of course. I’ve survived so far, haven’t I?)

(Even though I’ve never been good with cold.)

(But maybe… Maybe I want more than just to survive. Maybe I want to *live*.)

Suddenly, instead of drawing back, I’m clutching Daenerys’ hand like a lifeline, clinging to her like I’ll never let go. And she’s gripping me just as tightly, like she thinks I’m going to run the moment she releases me.

(She wouldn’t necessarily be wrong about that.)

“Oh, Sansa,” she says, and while her voice is still sad, it’s no longer disappointed. “What happened after that?”

I heave a trembling breath, on the edge of breaking down again, but although a couple of tears slide down my cheeks, I remain unwracked by sobs.

“I told her… I said some horrible things. Hurtful things. I know I upset her. I mean, I was supposed to be her *friend* and I… But she didn’t go away. Worse than that, she still wanted to talk about… about what happened. Like *talking* about it would somehow make everything alright again!” Like anything between us could ever be alright again after that. “I tried ignoring her, but that didn’t work either. So in the end, I- I told her I d- didn’t want to be her f- friend anymore.”

My voice rises into a wail on the last few words, and I should probably try to get myself back under control but that thought has no weight to it. Right now, I doubt my loss of composure is going to make Daenerys think any worse of me than what I’m saying.

And she couldn’t think worse of me than I think of myself right now.

“But you liked her,” Daenerys says, sounding like the words are startled out of her. Somehow, I muster the courage to meet her gaze, and she’s looking at me like she’s never seen me before.

Maybe I should just have left. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here in the first place. (Maybe I shouldn’t have slept with Margaery in the first place.)

And yet…

And yet, in some peculiar way, I actually feel relieved to finally get this out in the open. It’s like a heavy burden has been, not lifted but at least… acknowledged.

Anyway, it’s too late to turn back now. All I can do is plunge onwards.

“Of course I liked her,” I say softly. “She was my best friend; I’d known her my whole life. And she liked me too, even after I reacted badly to… to what she did.” No, there’s no point in dissembling right now. Not after I’ve come this far. “To her kissing me.”

Daenerys searches my face with her piercing blue eyes, looking for I-don’t-know-what. I wonder what she sees.

“You were attracted to her,” she says, like it’s simple, like it’s no big deal, like it’s *normal*, and the words hit me like a hammer blow.

I…

(My world tilts on its axis, its surface quivering in the grip of vast tectonic forces.)

I…

(I want to close my eyes, to turn away from the yawning chasm at my feet, to make my way back to the safety of solid ground.)

I was…

(I’m not sure there’s any solid ground left. And I’m not sure I *can* close my eyes any longer.)

“Yes,” I whisper. “I was attracted to her.”

(I wonder what — if anything — will be left standing when it’s done. When I’m done.)

For what feels like an eternity, Daenerys just looks at me, but then she shakes her head, looking confused.

“I don’t understand,” she says. “The two of you could have been together. You could have been happy together. Why did you push her away?” Her voice takes on a strange intensity. “Why did you deny who you are?”

No, she doesn’t understand. And I’m not sure she’s going to, but I have to try anyway.

(I just hope she doesn’t end up hating me.)

“Because I’m not *like* that,” I say. “I’m not a… I’m not really attracted to women. It was just Jeyne.” (And now Margaery?) “Why ruin both of our lives for the sake of a silly schoolgirl crush?”

Daenerys blinks.

“Ruin your lives?” she repeats, the hint of an edge creeping into her voice. “Isn’t that a little melodramatic?”

I flinch.

“It’s how I felt at the time,” I mutter, trying not to hunch protectively around myself. How did we even get onto this subject in the first place? I was going to talk about Margaery, not Jeyne. And yet, here we are. “You have to understand,” I continue in a stronger voice, as if more volume will help to get my point across. (Whatever my point even is at this point.) “There were *expectations*. My parents and friends, they wouldn’t have understood.” Mum and Dad would have been so disappointed in me. “I was *happy* with who I was, with my life. Why risk losing everything for something that wasn’t even real?”

“How do you know it wasn’t real?”

Now it’s my turn to stare, blinking.

“Because…” My voice cracks on the word. I swallow hard and try again. “Because I’m not…” I trail off, unable to make myself finish the sentence.

“Attracted to women? Yes, you said that. Just before telling me you were attracted to this Jeyne girl. And, presumably, to Margaery.” Her voice is cold enough to make me shiver, sharp enough to cut me to the bone. She’s never spoken to me like this before, not even close.

“Daenerys,” I say, her name a plea I’m not sure she even hears, let alone comprehends.

Why is she being like this?

(What did I do wrong?)

“I’m just trying to understand,” she says. “But I can’t. You just told me you had a chance at love, and you threw it away — along with the person who meant so much to you — because you were worried about what other people would think.”

I gape at her for a moment.

“That isn’t… It wasn’t like that,” I say.

Wasn’t it?

Was I really just a coward?

*Am* I a coward?

“Were you even really happy back then, or were you just telling yourself you were?”

“I was happy!” I protest. “I *was*…”

I was… mostly. When I wasn’t feeling like a freak. When I could just concentrate on enjoying Jeyne’s company without letting myself think about why I liked being with her so much.

“Do you really think it’s a good thing, to lock away a part of yourself like that?”

“That’s not what I was doing,” I say, the denial sounding half-hearted even to my own ears. Bizarrely, even as I find myself shrinking back under the onslaught of her words, what keeps running through my mind is that, even though all of this, even though flames of anger (she’s angry with me?) flicker beneath her icy control, she still hasn’t let go of my hand.

“Do you think it’s healthy, lying to yourself about who you are and what you want?”

“I wasn’t *lying*,” I say, almost sobbing now.

“Isn’t it braver to be true to yourself, even if it’s hard?”

“I’m not brave!” I shout. “I never claimed to be brave, or strong, or anything like that. I’m not…” Her gaze softens at that, her rigid posture relaxing a fraction, and I start to let myself hope that it might be alright after all. But that split second of distraction is enough for me to breathe the wish that’s running through my head. “I just want to be normal.”

The momentary softness vanishes as if I’d merely imagined it.

“*Normal*?” she says, the word dripping with contempt. “And being queer isn’t normal, of course. What is it then? Is it something to be ashamed of? Something to be *afraid* of? Are you afraid of me, Sansa?”

(Yes. Yes, I am.)

(Not the way I was afraid of Joffrey, but I’m afraid nonetheless.)

“No, of course not,” I say. “I didn’t say… That’s not what I meant.”

How did this whole conversation go so wrong so quickly? What *happened*?

“Then what *do* you mean?”

She’s not just angry, she’s upset. I’ve upset her.

I think I’ve upset myself.

“I- I- I…”

My voice is shaking, my whole body trembling until I think I might break apart with the force of it, shattered pieces of me flying every which way. I have to look away from her eyes, hard as gemstones, focused as a laser beam. I take a breath, then another, willing the tremors to still.

Calm.

(I’m not calm.)

I’m calm.

(But I can fake it.)

I can fix this.

(I really hope I can fix this.)

When I look back towards Daenerys, I can tell something’s different. Gone is the piercing stare, the flicker of anger in her eyes, wiped away my something that looks a lot like shock. She almost flinches back from me, her breath hissing audibly through her teeth.

What happened in those brief moments? What has she seen?

(Did she not know what effect her words were having on me until now? Is that even possible?)

I almost want to ask her what’s wrong, but there’s something I have to tell her before I lose the nerve.

Something important.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” I say, wretchedly. “You’re strong *and* brave. You’re not afraid to be who you are, to stand up and say what you think. You don’t know what it’s like to be terrified of disappointing the people you care about, to stay awake at nights worrying that you’re not the person they think you are. That you can’t *be* the person they think you are.” I wince internally when I realise how this sounds. “It’s not… My parents aren’t tyrants or anything like that. They’re good people.” Were, in the case of my father, but I can’t really bring myself to quibble over tenses right now. “It’s just… I just wanted them to be proud of me.”

I search Daenerys’ face for any sign that I’m getting through to her, that she doesn’t despise me any more, and I think… She seems more thoughtful than angry, which I choose to take as a good sign. Emboldened by hope, I continue.

“I would have done anything not to let them down,” I say. “And this seemed like such a small thing. It’s not as if I was even sure about what I was feeling. I couldn’t exactly ask anyone — what if it got out? The community was a small one, and people *really* liked to gossip.” I sigh softly. “When… When Jeyne kissed me, I panicked. I know it doesn’t excuse what I did, and I’m certainly not proud of it. And once I’d driven that wedge between us, I didn’t know how to fix it.” Distantly, I’m aware that my cheeks are wet again, but I can’t muster the energy to care. “I couldn’t bear to see her hurting, but I couldn’t tell her why I’d pushed her away. I- I couldn’t. Not without telling her everything. So I thought it would be easier for her if we just didn’t see each other for a while. I hoped she’d get over it. I hoped we’d *both* get over it. And then, in time, when it wasn’t so quite so raw anymore, I hoped that maybe we could be friends again.” I swallow past a lump in my throat. “But that never happened.”

Joffrey happened instead. But that’s a whole different story, and not one I really want to think about right now, let alone talk about.

Daenerys looks… stricken.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I should never have said all those things. You came to me for help, and I yelled at you.”

“It’s alright,” I say, daring to hope that means all the unpleasantness is behind us. “You don’t have to apologise.”

“I made you cry,” she says, sounding half on the verge of tears herself. “Of course I have to apologise.”

I’m about to tell her that I’m okay, really, when she completely derails my train of thought by reaching out a hand and gently brushing the tears from my cheek.

My now-blushing cheek. Naturally.

“Um,” is all I can say as my thoughts scatter every which way. Somewhat inanely, the one coherent thought I actually manage to hang onto is the observation that I didn’t even notice her setting her coffee cup aside. On the heels of that, comes the realisation that I’m about to tip what’s left of my own drink over the pair of us. “Um!” I say, swiftly tilting my mug back upright. “I need to put this down.”

She sits up, incidentally taking her hand away from my cheek (did she really caress it as she did so?), which is probably a good thing as far as my concentration is concerned. I set the mug down on a table, turning back to see Daenerys looking at me intently.

“You’re wrong, you know,” she says softly.

My eyes start to prickle again.

“Wrong about what?” I ask, tentatively.

(About what else, is what I mean. Maybe it would just be easier to list the things I’m right about.)

“About me.” She gives a lopsided smile that doesn’t even come close to reaching her eyes. “I do know what it’s like to be terrified of letting someone down. And I wasn’t… I wasn’t always strong. Or brave. Or sure of myself. Once upon a time, I wouldn’t have dreamt of ever speaking my mind.” Her short laugh holds no trace of humour. “I was positively meek back then.”

“Oh,” is all I can say to that. It’s like she’s suddenly started speaking a foreign language. Daenerys… meek? I can’t even begin to imagine what that would be like.

“I’m not that person any longer,” she says, softly, then grins suddenly; a natural one this time, that brings a touch of sparkle to her eyes. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I echo, echoing her smile as well. 

“But,” she continues, her expression sobering one more. “It means I know first-hand what it’s like to try to be something you’re not, just to please someone else. Someone who’ll never appreciate what you’ve sacrificed for them.” I start to protest that, then fall silent as I realise she’s not talking about me. She leans forward suddenly, startling me. “It’s not worth it, Sansa, believe me,” she says earnestly. It isn’t.”

I almost say that it’s worked for me so far, but the words stick in my throat, choking me into silence. Because I’m not so sure any more that it has. Maybe all I was doing was putting off the inevitable.

Oh, I don’t know.

I’m not sure I know anything anymore.

“Why didn’t you tell me that before?” I ask, before I can think better of it. “Instead of…”

(Instead of calling me selfish. Instead of calling me a self-deluded, hypocritical fool.)

(Not in those precise words, perhaps, but that’s what it boiled down to.)

Daenerys winces like I’ve slapped her, but she doesn’t look away, meeting my gaze squarely so I can see the regret in her eyes.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” she says, her tone matter-of-fact. “It was insensitive and harsh, especially when you were already feeling upset. I’m sorry, Sansa.” She wavers now, her voice turning soft and unsure. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

I want to say yes, of course, that there’s nothing to forgive. That it’s fine, and I’m fine, and everything’s going to be fine from here on in. But something holds me back.

“Why were you so angry with me?” I want to know. “I mean, I understand why you feel strongly about it, but why did you…?” (Why did she have to be so cruel?)

She winces again, starting to drop her gaze before checking the motion.

“It wasn’t you I was angry with,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “It was me. The old me. For being so- Look, Sansa, I’m sorry I upset you, but do you mind if we don’t talk about this right now? I’m not saying never, but maybe just… Not right now?”

I want to know more. I wish I knew how to take away the pain I can see in her eyes. (I want to say that I understand she has her own issues, but it’s not right for her to take them out on me. It’s not.)

But I nod, and give her a gentle smile, and say:

“Of course.”

(What else can I do? She’s my friend, and friends forgive each other their trespasses.)

(Oh, Jeyne. I’m so sorry.)

“Thank you,” Daenerys says, although I’m not sure why. (It’s not like I could make her tell me anything she doesn’t want to.) But the smile she gives me makes everything worthwhile, and I can’t help but smile back at her.

(I reflect her brightness like a mirror. Like a moon to her sun.)

And as I do, I realise something.

Despite everything, despite the unpleasantness. (Despite seeing a side of Daenerys I didn’t think would ever be turned on me.)

I’m still glad I came.

“So…” she says, after a pause, looking at me expectantly.

“Um, yes?” I ask, confused.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? What happened with you and Margaery?”

Oh. Right.

I guess this conversation isn’t over yet.


	24. Chapter 24

I start to speak, then hesitate, second-guessing myself even though I swore earlier I was beyond that now. But that was before my attempt at spontaneity went so very wrong. What is Daenerys asking, really? What does she want to know? I doubt she wants a full, blow-by-blow account.

So to speak.

Annnd… now I’m blushing again. How am I supposed to talk about what happened with Margaery if merely thinking about it gets me into such a tizzy? I have to say something, but I can’t… But I-

Well, she already knows the important thing, which is that it happened at all. The rest is just detail. All I have to do is stick to the facts. (And try to avoid going into too much… detail.) It’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. What’s the worst that could happen?

Oh god. I had to go and think that, didn’t I? Now I’m bound to put my foot in it. Again.

What the heck. If putting my foot in it is inevitable, then there’s no point in worrying about trying to find the perfect opening line. I might as well just get on with it.

“We went out for drinks with LH Soc after training,” I say.

“As is traditional,” Daenerys murmurs, one side of her mouth quirking upwards into a tiny, lopsided smile. Of course. I’d forgotten that she used to be a member, before she and Asha broke up. I almost say that aloud, but think better of it. I don’t want to bring up any unpleasant memories.

“Usually I mostly stick to soft drinks, but I… I decided I wanted to let my hair down a bit, so I had a couple of vodka-tonics.” I sneak a glance to see how she’s taking this, but she doesn’t show any particular reaction. Reassured a little, I continue. “Margaery had been… flirting with me a little over the course of the day.”

“That’s Margaery for you,” she sighs. “I think flirting is like breathing to her.”

I almost feel the need to rise to Margaery’s defence, but I belatedly realise that Daenerys didn’t say that like a criticism. Anyway, based on the available evidence, I’m not precisely sure she’s wrong.

(Okay, I don’t think she’s wrong at all.)

“Anyway, I guess I thought it would be kind of fun to… to maybe flirt back a little.”

I sneak another surreptitious glance, or try to, but end up accidentally making eye contact, distracted from subtlety by a gaze so intense it makes me blush again. (Assuming I ever stopped blushing in the first place.)

“Channelling your inner high mage were you?” she asks, sounding two parts perplexed to one part bemused. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

“Um, maybe. I don’t know.” I shrug awkwardly, and then suddenly realise that she’s still clasping my hand in hers. It looks like the realisation hits Daenerys at the same moment. We both let go, more or less simultaneously. I fold my hands carefully in my lap. She smooths what I’m pretty sure is an imaginary wrinkle from her skirt, almost — but not quite — as if that was her intention all along. We both shift a little in place.

Great. Because more awkwardness is *exactly* what we need right now.

“And was it?” Daenerys asks abruptly. “Fun, I mean. The flirting?”

I think about it for a moment. (I don’t need to think about it, not even for a moment.)

“Yes, I think it was.” (It definitely was, but something holds me back from expressing the absolute. Something inexplicable.) “I’ve never really flirted with anyone before.” I manage a small smile. “Not when I wasn’t in character as someone else, anyway.” 

“I was going to say,” she replies, the lightness of her tone not quite matching the still-intense look in her eyes. “I think Nymeria is *pretty* sure Alanna was flirting with her during at least one of the times they fought for their lives together.”

“Huh? But… I mean… Um…” I don’t know quite what to say to that. “Maybe?”

Daenerys laughs. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to make you blow a fuse,” she says, sounding more like her usual non-awkward self. “Adora- Ah, amusing though it is to watch.” Bwuh? (Was she going to say what I think she was going to say? No, probably not. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.) “Please, continue.”

“Okay, um.” I gather my scattered wits as best as I can. “Right.” This is the hard part. “So, Margaery and I were both a little tipsy when we got back to my place. Oh! I forgot to mention, but I’d previously said she could stay the night. She wanted to give Loras some space.”

“I’ll bet Renly appreciated that.”

I decide not to acknowledge that observation, accurate though it is.

“Anyway, when we got upstairs, she… she kissed me.”

My voice sounds strange in my ears, soft and breathy and almost… awed. A realisation hits me, suddenly, now I finally have space enough to look back at yesterday with even a smidgen of objectivity. Despite everything, despite the confusion and denial and self-recrimination, despite the lifetime of instincts telling me I did something wrong and bad and shameful last night, I can’t bring myself to regret that kiss.

(I have the urge to bring my fingers to my lips; a tactile expression of the wonder I feel.)

(Fortunately, I manage not to act on it.)

I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.

“What happened then?” Daenerys prompts.

“Then I, well, I kind of froze.” I give a small, rueful smile. “It sort of took me completely by surprise. I’m really not used to just being randomly kissed like that. By girls or, well, by anyone, really.” Daenerys looks like she wants to say something, but when I pause politely to let her speak she remains silent, watching me. Maybe I was mistaken. “I think Margaery was a little freaked out when I just stared gormlessly at her.”

“I doubt you looked gormless,” Daenerys interjects.

“Oh, I’m pretty sure I did,” I say, but I smile to show I appreciate her politeness. “But when I didn’t say anything, Margaery started to worry that she’d done something wrong, and I was angry or upset.”

“And were you?”

Well, that’s a more complicated question than it has any right to be.

I sigh softly.

“Yes, but not with her.” Daenerys raises an eyebrow, but forbears to ask the question I can see written on her face. Her patient silence gives me the time I need to choose my words. “You asked me once who’d told me terrible things about myself. Do you remember?”

She nods jerkily, her jaw tensing and her eyes flashing briefly with something that looks a lot like anger. (I fight the urge to cringe, telling myself that it’s not me she’s angry with. Not this time.)

“I remember,” she says shortly, the words sounding like they emerge through gritted teeth.

“Well, there was a boy, in school. We went out together for a little while, but he…” The room seems to constrict briefly, closing in on me, making me fight for breath. I shrug, the motion feeling jerky and awkward, almost robotic. “I wasn’t a very good girlfriend.” I make myself pause, make myself breathe. “No, it wasn’t that. It was… He didn’t treat me very well,” I manage to make myself say.

(Words like scalpels, hands like steel; bright smile and heavy frown each but a face of cruelty’s coin.)

(Or, to put it more prosaically: no, he didn’t treat me very well at all.)

And even saying that out loud, even acknowledging it to someone else, makes me want to cringe and take the words back. Part of me just wants to dismiss the whole sorry business like it doesn’t mean anything.

Like it doesn’t matter.

(To make excuses for him. To say he didn’t mean it, or I deserved it, or he was only doing it for my own good. Except… Except he *did* mean it, and the only ‘good’ he was ever interested in was his own. I do know that, I do.)

(It’s just hard sometimes.)

While I struggle with myself (with the traces of him that live in my head even now), Daenerys touches my shoulder in a wordless show of support. I lean into her touch, grateful for the contact, hoping that maybe it will let me take on some of her strength.

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” she says, the words only audible thanks to her proximity. Before I can say anything in response (and, really, what would I say?), she continues at a normal speaking volume. “What was his name again?”

Her voice is light, almost casual, like she’s merely commenting on the weather, but the look in her eyes is pure steel. For a moment — a dizzying, delirious moment — I’m a little bit tempted to answer her. To give her his name and let her do with it as she will.

But no.

He’s behind me now, in the dark and distant country of the past. Let him remain there. (And let Daenerys stay here in the present, with me.)

“It doesn’t matter,” I tell her. “It’s not important. But sometimes I remember some of the things he said to me. And… And…”

“And you remembered some of them last night?”

I nod, grateful that she understands.

“It was… One moment, Margaery was telling me how pretty I was, and how she’d been wanting to kiss me all evening.” Daenerys makes a strange sound at that, but when I glance over, her composure is flawless. “The next, it was like all I could hear was *his* voice telling me I was stupid and worthless and ugly.” My voice trembles a little, but my eyes stay dry. “And I wanted it *gone*. I wanted to be able to appreciate a simple compliment without *that* tearing it — tearing me — down. I wanted… I wanted to feel the way I felt when she kissed me.”

The sheer, simple truth of the words knocks me for six. Daenerys too, from the way she has to swallow before she can speak again, from the way her voice emerges low and hoarse, as if she’s been shouting. (Or crying.)

“What happened then?” she asks.

A wave of memories washes over me, filling my mind and senses with Margaery. Her lips, her hands, her smooth, pale skin gleaming in the lamplight. Her touch, her taste… Her. It’s an effort of will to drag myself back to the here and now, to try to look Daenerys in the eye like I haven’t just been thinking about… Like I wasn’t remembering…

(And I still can’t shake the feeling that I’ve let her down in some way.)

That my cheeks are flushed and flaming should really go without saying.

“We, um…” My mouth is dry, so I lick my lips and try again. “Things progressed. We didn’t, um, we didn’t stop at kissing.”

Suddenly uncertain, I search Daenerys’ face for clues. Does she really want me to continue? Because I’m not at all sure I can, or even that I should. Luckily, she makes a ’stop’ gesture, a momentary look of panic flashing across her face as if she wants to hear it about as much as I want to tell it.

“I think I get the gist,” she says, abruptly. “I don’t need the details.”

Thank god.

She sits back a little, putting distance between us like I’m suddenly too hot to touch. (Or just untouchable. Soiled. Unclean.) Maybe she just needs some space. (I miss the light press of her knee against mine.)

“What happened afterwards?” she asks.

(Collapsing together, exhausted and sweaty and satisfied. Barely enough energy and presence of mind to pull the duvet up over the pair of us before tumbling gently into the best sleep I’ve ever had. A night spent wrapped in each other’s arms.)

“Um… We fell asleep, I guess.” Without thinking, I add: “We were pretty tired.” Daenerys’ eyes fly wide open and she stares at me so I feel compelled to soften that a little. “I mean, we were up late Saturday night because of LARP, and chatting afterwards. And training was pretty exhausting. You know we had a tournament? I even won my first two bouts! And… And it was pretty late already because we went out for a curry after the pub. LH Soc, I mean. Those of us who were still left, which was actually pretty much the whole group. And… And… And…”

“Breathe, Sansa,” she interrupts, thankfully. She smiles a little and pats my hand. (Maybe I’m not untouchable after all.)

“Sorry,” I mutter. Dutifully, I take a deep breath, imagining the jitters leaving my body along with the exhaled carbon dioxide. (For some reason, I picture them as a cloud of gaudy butterflies, all the colours of the rainbow and maybe a few the rainbow doesn’t know about.) I think it helps. (Or maybe it’s her hand on mine giving me the strength to focus.) “Anyway, the next morning I, um, kind of freaked out.” I shake my head. “I think I’ve been freaking out ever since.”

“Because you slept with a girl?”

“Yes, but at first it was more that I’d slept with *anyone*, let alone someone I’d only met the day before.” For the first time since it happened, I manage something I would’ve thought impossible: I actually find a little humour in the situation. I give Daenerys what I think is a very wry smile. “I only started freaking out about the girl thing when I made it into the shower.” I shake my head, my smile fading as I follow the thought through. “I didn’t even *think* about Margaery being a girl. I mean, I did, obviously, but it wasn’t the foremost thought in my head at that point.” Although maybe the word ‘thought’ is a little strong considering the state of my mind at the time. “But trust me, I’ve been doing *plenty* of freaking out over that fact since.”

Which is pretty much an understatement to end all understatements.

“You don’t *sound* like you’re freaking out right now,” she notes.

I laugh, because that’s all I *can* do in response to that. But the laughter is just a little too high-pitched, and a little too jagged and goes on just a little too long, and so I make myself stop.

“That’s just on the surface,” I say. “Underneath it all, I’m a mess. I’m a-” My breath catches in my throat, perhaps a stray giggle trying to escape. I hiccup once, and then, as if they’ve just been shaken free from wherever they were stuck, words tumble out of me all in a rush. “But it’s not like it was with Jeyne!”

She stares at me. I stare back, suddenly regretting bringing up Jeyne again. (What if she’s angry with me all over again? I think more cutting words from her would tear me completely to shreds.)

(I can’t bear for Daenerys to think badly of me. I just can’t bear it)

“What do you mean?” she asks cautiously.

I search her face, but find no trace of disapproval. Reassured, I plunge onwards.

“I mean I’m not going to… to let the freaking out make me push Margaery away. I’m not going to ruin this.”

I’m not going to destroy another friendship out of panic, even if it is with someone only I’ve just met.

“‘This?’” she echoes blankly. “Do you mean it wasn’t…?” Her voice trails off, sounding distant and strange. I wonder if she’s alright. (I wonder what I’ve said wrong this time.) She stops, clears her throat and tries again. “Are you and Margaery going to… to see each other again?”

(“Maybe we’ll do it again some time.”)

I freeze, the echo of Margaery’s voice so clear, so *real*, that it’s like she’s right here with us in the room. I feel the ghost of her mouth again, the heat of her body close to mine, and this time I’m too distracted to stop myself briefly pressing my fingers to my own lips.

“Maybe,” I find myself saying, rather than the ‘no’ I was intending. “We haven’t really talked about it.” My voice sounds soft and dreamy, like I’m floating on the edge of sleep. Now that I think about it, I am pretty wiped out. Maybe that’s why my mouth keeps rambling on without my consciously choosing to continue speaking. “I think I’d like to, though.”

Daenerys is right. Much though I want to, I can’t just bury my head in the sand and pretend this never happened. I can’t pretend *Jeyne* never happened. I mean, I don’t think I am… I don’t think I really do like girls in the way she was suggesting I do. Not really. But Margaery and I obviously made a connection, and I think I’d kind of like to…

I mean, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to talk to her again, is there? In wanting to spend time with her? I think maybe we could be friends. Close friends. (Friends like Jeyne and I were, before… Before.)

So, yes. I’d definitely like to see her again. And I think… I think she’d be alright with that.

“Oh,” Daenerys says, the single word oddly choked-sounding and hoarse. I look at her with concern, but before I can ask what’s wrong, she speaks again, in a tone so light and bright and cheerful that now I’m doubting what I thought I heard. “Well, I’m happy for you.” she says, smiling broadly. “For both of you.” Huh? “I hope you’ll be very happy together.”

Wait.

What?

She thinks that it was… That Margaery and I… That we’re…

“Um,” I begin, although I have no idea where I’m going to go from there. Judging by her earlier reaction, it wouldn’t be a good idea to remind her that I’m not *actually* attracted to women. Not during this conversation, at least.

(And I *really* don’t want her to think that I’m a slut.)

I mean, just because I have a… a… a *connection* with a woman, doesn’t mean…

Doesn’t-

Huh.

Margaery and I have a connection.

(I’ve been drawn to her since the moment I saw her. I felt comfortable enough to *flirt* with her, for heaven’s sake! And *she* started flirting with *me* the very first time we spoke.)

Could it be…? Is that…?

Is this what True Love feels like?

Daenerys says something. Belatedly, I realise that it sounded like a question.

“Pardon me?” I smile sheepishly at her. “I was thinking, sorry.”

She seems amused at my lapse, rather than annoyed. (Maybe there’s something there, some shadow at the back of her eyes, but I’m not sure what it means. I’m not sure I want to ask right now, not while I’m so distracted the clutter in my own head. Maybe afterwards, when I’ve worked through some of what’s clamouring for my attention.

“I said, would you like a hot chocolate?” she says. “Or a coffee or something?”

“Um…” I give myself a mental shake. “A caramel hot chocolate would be lovely, thanks, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“I was going to get myself a coffee anyway,” she says, shrugging. She gets to her feet in one smooth, graceful motion.

I wonder if I should follow her, to keep her company, but only get as far as “Should I…?” before she shakes her head, putting her hand out as if to stop me getting up.

“You’re under the weather, remember? Just sit there and relax; let me look after you.” She gives a wry smile. “It’s what… what friends do.”

(She’s looking a little pale and drawn herself. I wonder if maybe she’s coming down with something. Not that she’d admit it if she was. She’s much stronger than I am about this kind of thing. I’ll just have to keep an eye on her, that’s all.)

“Thanks,” I say. “I really do appreciate this you know. All of it. Looking after me, feeding me, giving me that truly delicious lemon cake, helping me with…” I struggle for a good way to describe the whole messy situation, settling on: “All of this.” I meet her eyes, willing her to see how much she means to me. “You’re a wonderful friend.”

“You’re-“ She breaks off, clearing her throat before continuing. “You’re a good friend too, Sansa. And now I’d better get on with those drinks.”

It’s only after she’s disappeared into the kitchen that I realise she didn’t take the mugs. I think about taking them through myself, or calling to her, but something stops me. I feel mildly guilty, but I salve my conscience by promising myself I’ll do the washing up. It’s just…

Now I’m on my own, all those half-formed fragments of thoughts I pushed aside to concentrate on Daenerys have come back in force, filling my mind so that I can barely think of anything else. I don’t *want* to think of anything else. There’s something urgent rising up inside me and if I try to ignore it any longer I think I might just burst.

So I relax my metaphorical death grip and let what’s bubbling away beneath the surface rise up into the light.

And I see…

Oh, of *course*! That explains everything. I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me before, but it just makes so much *sense* and… and… and…

I’m in love with Margaery!

(I must be. It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only thing that explains why I would… The only thing that means I’m not a…)

True Love. Love at first sight. The kind of love that strikes you like a bolt from the blue, changing you forever. That *has* to be what happened.

(Doesn’t it?)

Juliet and Romeo, Cathy and Heathcliff, Bella and Edward, Katniss and Peeta… The list goes on.

True Love doesn’t care about nationalities, or social class, or cultural conventions, or personalities or… or… or gender, I guess. It’s a force of *nature*, beholden to nothing and no one but its own ineffable self. And it’s about souls, not bodies. It doesn’t have to… It doesn’t mean I’m attracted to women generally. It’s just not *about* that.

(I’m not actually a… a… lesbian, despite what Daenerys seems to think. And I’m not… not a slut, either. I’m not. Not if it’s True Love.)

(So it has to be True Love.)

(It has to be.)

It’s about love.

My True Love is a woman.

Okay. Okay, I can deal with that. It’s just like a… a… particularly close friendship. (Like Jeyne and I used to be. Could have been. Together forever.) And it doesn’t even… There’s no law saying that romantic love *has* to involve the… the physical side of things. So it could still…

(I could still be normal.)

Anyway, women are supposed to have close friendships.

(And no one would ever have to know that it’s anything more than that.)

So, that’s what this is.

(Isn’t it?)

Phew! I feel much better now I’ve got this all sorted out in my mind. *So* much better. But I wonder… Does Margaery feel the same way?

She has to, doesn’t she? I mean, she *kissed* me. (“I’ve been wanting to do that for hours.”) And it was *magical*. Just the way they say it is in the stories. It was obviously about more than just — (the way her lips parted when I kissed her back; the soft pressure of her body against mine) — our bodies. It was… We had a *connection*. And a connection like that has to go both ways, doesn’t it? She had to feel it too. That’s how True Love works?

Except… Maybe it doesn’t, not always. Maybe the lightning bolt can strike one person and leave the other untouched. Or it doesn’t strike them both as deeply. Or at the same time. But it doesn’t mean it’s not real, and it doesn’t mean it’s not worth fighting for. Like Katniss and Peeta. If he hadn’t fought and suffered, she might never have realised… But they still got their happily ever after, didn’t they?

Didn’t they?

Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I don’t… I don’t need Margaery to feel the same way. (And it might be easier if she doesn’t.) Just loving her is enough to make me happy. (And if it’s unreciprocated, maybe there’ll be less temptation to think of… unplatonic things.) So it’s settled. (But if she does feel the same, maybe it would be alright if we… Just one more time at least.)

Alright, then.

But… if she is my True Love, and even if I’m not hers, shouldn’t I… do something? Get her a present, maybe? Send her flowers? I mean, we *were*… intimate. Even if we never are again — (“maybe we’ll do it again some time”) — I kind of feel like I should… acknowledge our connection, somehow. But I don’t know the first thing about, well, wooing a girl. Or wooing anyone, for that matter. Only what I’ve read in books, and I’m not sure it would be a good idea to compose her a sonnet. (Not right now, anyway. I don’t want to seem obsessive. Maybe later?)

Maybe I should ask someone…

“Here you go,” Daenerys says cheerfully. I take the mug she hands me and inhale deeply, savouring the rich, sweet aroma.

“Thank you,” I say, smiling up at her. “I could get used to this.”

I only mean that it’s nice being served hot drinks for a change, instead of serving them to others, but she twitches like I’ve said something harsh.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and there’s nothing in her tone to suggest she’s anything other than cheerful right now.

But still…

“Are you alright? You seem a little…” Off? On edge? Strange?

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, sitting down next to me. Well, at the other end of the sofa, but I think that counts as ‘next-to’. “I’m just a little tired. It’s been a long day.”

“Oh! I’m sorry.” A wave of guilt crashes over me. Of course she’d still take such good care of me when she’s not feeling great herself. And of course she’d never complain about it. That’s just the kind of person she is. “You should have said something sooner. I wouldn’t have imposed on you for anywhere near this long, or even at all. I should let you get some rest…”

I wonder how quickly I can finish my hot chocolate without burning my mouth, and without choking again. But I don’t want to seem rude, or unappreciative of her efforts in making it. I compromise be taking steady sips.

“It’s okay, Sansa,” she says, smiling fondly at me. “I did say you could come over. If I hadn’t felt up to company, I would have told you so.” She laughs. “Have you ever known me to have trouble saying what’s on my mind?”

“Um…”

“Precisely.”

She nods, like that’s settled. We drink our drinks in silence for a little while, and my mind drifts, perhaps inevitably, back to thoughts of love.

I wonder if…? No, probably not. But maybe…? No, I *couldn’t*. But… No.

But if not Daenerys, then who? Asha doesn’t really seem the type for romantic gestures, and I can’t very well ask Margaery if it’s supposed to be a surprise.

No, that settles it. I’ll ask her.

I’ll… just… have another sip or two of my hot chocolate first. I mean, I wouldn’t want it to get cold.

In the end, I leave it long enough that we both start to speak at the same time, then break off, each gesturing for the other to go ahead. We laugh.

“You first,” she says, seeming a little more relaxed for the laughter.

(Maybe she’ll tell me what’s bothering her, if I ask.)

I think about demurring, but I know I’ll only chicken out if I don’t seize this opportunity. Alright. Deep breath. I can do this.

“Um, I was just wondering…”

“Yes?” she says, when the pause stretches into a full-blown halt.

“I was thinking that I should, um, that is, I’d like to do something nice for Margaery. Since we’re…” I can’t bring myself to say the word ‘soulmates,’ especially considering Daenerys’ views on the subject of True Love. I shrug. “Well, you know. But I don’t really know what… I don’t really have any experience with this kind of thing, and I’m not sure what would be appropriate. So I was wondering if maybe you could give me some advice?”

I have no earthly idea what she’s thinking right now. *Anything* could be going on behind her eyes — now opaque as frosted glass — and I wouldn’t have a clue.

After what feels like a long time (a long, horribly awkward time, even though it really can’t be more than a moment or two), she finally speaks.

“I don’t…” She stops, takes a deep draught of her coffee — I still don’t know how she manages to do that without burning her mouth — and starts again. “Are you asking me for advice on how to court your girlfriend?”

“Um…” When she puts it like that, it sounds kind of… Silly? Strange? (Wrong.) Naive? “Maybe, kind of, I guess.” I shake my head. “I’ve never done this before!” I wail. “I don’t know what to do, or what’s expected, or any of it. I don’t know *anything*.” Belatedly, I remember to add: “And we’re not… I mean, it’s not official or anything.”

I *can’t* have a girlfriend. She’s just… a very close friend who also happens to be my True Love. A platonic friend. (Or maybe… not platonic?) That’s all.

That’s okay, isn’t it?

“I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask,” she says, hesitantly at first but building up steam as she continues. “Did you forget? My last relationship ended, at least in part, because of a lack of ‘courting.’ Trust me, I am *not* the most romantic person in the world.”

Under other circumstances, I’d say something comforting; tell her that can’t be true, or something. But right now it feels like I’m too much adrift in my own turmoil to be an anchor to anyone else. I know that makes me a bad friend (a terrible, horrible, awful friend, and probably a bad person to boot), but I can feel the panic starting to flood through me, swamping out anything but the acrid tang of desperation and I can’t… I can’t…

“*Please*,” I beg her. “I just don’t want to spoil everything and end up losing another friend. Can’t you just give me a couple of pointers? Please?”

“Sansa, I-“ She breaks off, a pained expression flickering briefly over her features before her mask settles back into place. After taking a couple of deep, even breaths, she continues in a calmer tone. “Okay, fine. I can do that.”

“Thank you,” I breathe, relief spreading through me like a balm. “I appreciate it.”

“Yes, well, you might want to save the thanks for if it actually turns out to be any good,” she warns, mock-seriously. At least, I *think* it’s only mock-seriously. “Alright. First of all, there’s no single right answer. Just like any other matter of personal, subjective taste, it depends on the individuals involved. For example, some people like flowers, some people don’t. Even among those that like flowers, some prefer big, showy, overly-elaborate displays, while some of us prefer a simple arrangement of blossoms — or even a single stem — carefully chosen for their meaning.”

It’s clear which option Daenerys favours. (I make a mental note, just in case I ever… Just in case.) But, interesting though that is…

“So, are you saying I have to figure it out for myself?”

“What I’m *saying* is that women — even queer women — aren’t part of some monolithic hive mind. The best advice I can give you is to figure out what *she* likes; what *she* would think is a suitably romantic gesture. And then do that.” She pauses for a moment. “Asking Loras might be a good place to start.”

“But that sounds so *simple*…” I breathe. Could it be true?

Can I really bring myself to ask Loras how his sister would like to be ‘courted’?

Maybe Asha would know the best way to approach him. Of course, then she might want to know why I’m asking, but I guess I can always come up with some excuse.

I’ll think it over.

“Well, it’s not rocket science,” Daenerys notes, her tone drier than all the sand of the Sahara. “Or neuroscience,” she adds, saluting me with her mug. “And yet, people still manage to make a hash of it.” She sighs softly. “Myself included.” She studies me thoughtfully, drinking some more of her coffee. She sips this time, apparently taking a moment to savour the taste before continuing. “Not you, though, I think,” she muses softly, and then laughs a little strangely. “I bet you’re a natural at this kind of thing.”

“Um, thank you?” I say, not really knowing what to make of that. “But I really wouldn’t know.”

“Well, it seems that this is your chance to find out,” she says. “Good luck, not that I think you’ll need it.” She gives me a crooked smile. “Margaery’s lucky to have you.” I blush and stammer some all-but incomprehensible demurral, but she doesn’t even pause. “Now,” she says decisively. “If you don’t mind, I am done giving relationship advice for this evening. I think we’re more than due for a change of subject.”

“Um, okay.” I think I need to mull her words over a little anyway. I try to think of a new topic of conversation for now, but my mind goes completely blank. Fortunately, Daenerys rescues us from awkwardness.

“You said LH Soc had a tournament on Sunday?” she prompts. “How was that?”

“Oh, um.” Even though it only happened yesterday, it seems like the tournament was a long time ago. (I supposed because so much has happened since then.) It’s an effort to go back there. “It turned out to be a lot more fun than I would have expected. I didn’t get anywhere near the finals, but I won a couple of bouts.” It’s all coming back to be now. I feel myself relaxing, smiling at the memory of what winning felt like. “I was facing a guy called Pod in my first fight. He’s new this year…”


	25. Chapter 25

The first thing I notice when I open my eyes is the absence of stars.

After a brief moment of panic (where am I? why aren’t I in my own bed? where *am* I?) it all comes back to me. Daenerys and I ended up chatting for so long that, much to my immense embarrassment, I started falling asleep on her sofa. Good friend that she is, she immediately said I could stay the night. I wouldn’t have accepted, but, well, I really was absolutely shattered.

And there’s a spare room, so it’s not like I would have had to share her bed or anything. Or stretch out on the sofa, which, although perfectly comfortable to sit on, I don’t think would make an ideal sleeping surface. Especially for a beanpole like me.

I yawn widely, taking stock of how I feel. I’m… better, I think. Even though I didn’t get to sleep until the wee hours of the morning, I’m pretty sure I conked out as soon as my head hit the pillow. I feel relatively well-rested, anyway. I do seem to have a small case of the sniffles, and my throat is a touch sore — seems like I really am coming down with something after all — but aside from that I feel physically fine. Emotionally… Definitely better than I was yesterday. Talking to Daenerys — and, okay, being looked after by her — really helped a great deal. She’s such a good friend to me. I only hope I have a chance to return the favour someday.

I bask in the feeling for a moment, a little awed by the fact that someone cares about me so much. And then there’s the small matter of having found my True Love. Even with all the complications (like the fact that she’s a woman, that I’ve already been to bed with her); surely that’s something worth celebrating.

(Isn’t it?)

Thinking of Margaery makes me flash back to yesterday morning, and I fumble for my phone, suddenly panicked. *Please* let me not have overslept. I can’t be late for lectures two days in a row! I’d never live it down. (Even if, in all likelihood, I’d be the only one who knew, or cared.) Daenerys assured me she wouldn’t let me be late. She *promised*…

Blinking the sleep away for my eyes, I squint at the display to see… Oh, thank god! It’s a few minutes before my alarm is due to go off, which means I have plenty of time to get ready and walk to the QMC. I double check, just to make sure, and yes: I did manage to set the alarm properly this time. Phew!

I flop back onto the bed, limp with relief, only to practically levitate with shock as someone knocks at the door.

After checking to make sure I’m decent (thankfully so), I call out: “Come in.”

The door opens a crack to reveal a robe-clad Daenerys, a towel wrapped loosely around her clearly damp hair. She must have come straight from the shower. (I wonder if that means she’s completely naked under that robe.)

(That aquamarine satin robe embroidered with dragons.)

(That short, clinging robe.)

(Um…)

“Good morning,” she says, smiling like the dawn itself. (I make sure my eyes are fixed firmly on her face, rather than anywhere… lower.)

“Good morning.” My face feels inexplicably flushed, and I vainly struggle not to seem flustered.

I may feel relatively rested, but I’m still not sure I’m quite fully awake. Maybe part of me is still stuck in dreamland…

(Sweet kisses and soft sighs; skin sliding smoothly over slick skin…)

Or… maybe I’m just feeling feverish from the cold or whatever it is that seems to be besieging my system.

“Did you sleep well?”

I try to gather my sleep-and-lurgy-addled thoughts.

“Very well, thank you. Yourself?”

“Like a log.” We look at each other. “Well, I just wanted to make sure you woke up in time,” she says after a moment, adding quickly: “There’s still plenty of time, don’t worry. You didn’t oversleep.”

“Thanks for the wake-up call,” I say, and I smile at her without even thinking about it. (She makes it easy for me to smile.) “It’s so much nicer than an alarm clock.”

Speaking of which… I turn off my alarm — before it can make me jump like a fool — and drop my phone into my bag so I don’t forget it. Well, unless I forget my bag, but I’m hoping I’m not *that* addle-brained right now.

Sitting up, I swing my legs over the side of the bed, surreptitiously making sure my nightie doesn’t ride up as I do so. Had I been thinking clearly, I probably wouldn’t have chosen this one to bring. It’s not indecent or anything, but it is a little shorter than I’m really comfortable wearing in company. The soft, thick material is worn in perfectly, though; fitting me like a warm hug. I often wear pyjama bottoms with it on chilly nights, but it was so hot in here last night that I didn’t bother. I notice Daenerys looking at my nightie, and I start to wonder if maybe I should have done. A moment later, though, I realise that she probably *isn’t* thinking it’s too short. Especially given her lack of body consciousness. (And her tendency to wander around the house in very little given half a chance. Like that really very short robe.) I bet I know exactly what’s going through her mind…

“I… hope I wasn’t being presumptuous, bringing my night clothes,” I say hesitantly. “I wasn’t *expecting* to stay the night, or anything. But, well, you usually offer if I end up staying late. And I was *so* tired yesterday, so I thought there was a good chance I’d end up crashing out on you, and… and… Um…” Breathe, Sansa! “I hope it was okay,” I finish.

“What?” Daenerys blinks at me, looking confused — I guess I was babbling a bit — but then seems to pick up the thread of the conversation. “No, that’s fine. Of course it wasn’t presumptuous.” She shakes her head, absently wiping away a droplet of water that breaks free of her hair with the motion and starts trailing down her cheek. “How many times have I said you should stay over when it’s gotten late?” Her words start to pick up momentum, a wry smile quirking her lips. “That is a standing invitation, you know. If it would be a problem, I’ll let you know. But unless I say otherwise, you can assume you’re welcome to stay over. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say softly, some warm feeling spreading through my whole body. (Daenerys is such a wonderful friend. She’s so *nice* to me, and she never asks for anything in return.) “Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.” She laughs suddenly. “I think this must be a record for the most number of ‘thank yous’ and ‘you’re welcomes’ exchanged in a single conversation. Especially at this time in the morning.”

“I guess.”

Actually, I have the uncomfortable feeling that some of my other conversations may have beaten this record. No doubt at some dinner party or society event or other. It’s actually not hard for two people who’ve had rules of polite conversation and military-grade small talk instilled in them from a young age. The difficulty lies in actually avoiding the etiquette singularity.

But I don’t think I’ll be mentioning that to Daenerys.

“Anyway,” she says. “Pleasant though this is, I should probably go and put some clothes on. The shower’s free if you want it. Also, Missandei muttered something about coffee, so there should be a fresh carafe waiting when you come down.”

“Great!” I say with feeling. That sounds like just what I need to chase away any lingering cobwebs. “Thank you.” I all-but spring to my feet, buoyed by thoughts of a hot shower and hot coffee, and set about grabbing my toiletries and clothes.

(Belatedly, I remember that I should probably have held onto the hem of my nightie before I started bending up and down. Oh well. I’m sure Daenerys won’t mind.)

“I’ll… leave you to it,” she mutters. By the time I look up she’s gone, presumably to her room to put some clothes on. (That’s probably for the best.)

Right: time for that shower.

 

* * * * *

 

I look down at myself and sigh, plucking vainly at my shorts. No, it’s no good. There isn’t enough spare material in these to make a handkerchief, let alone to approximate some semblance of modesty. It feels like I’m walking around in my knickers! And this top — I’ll charitably call it a blouse, even if it does seem like someone got bored halfway through making it — seems to… cling a little, and plunge a *lot*, and ride up rather more than I’m really comfortable with, no matter how much I try to tug it down.

I *really* miss the usual uniform. What’s wrong with a nice skirt and blouse? Simple, elegant, understated and, most of all, *decent*. It didn’t make me feel like I was walking around in my underwear, that’s for sure! I know it’s nearly Christmas, but do we really need a whole new seasonal uniform? It’s the last week of term! What’s the point? I am *so* glad they didn’t arrive when they were supposed to at the start of December. I never thought I’d actually have reason to be so thankful for ‘supplier issues’. At least I only have to put up with this for less than a week.

I’m just dreading next year.

At least I’m wearing tights underneath the shorts, I guess. Even if those tights are bright scarlet, and don’t really leave anything to the imagination. Still, I suppose it could be worse. The entire *outfit* could be scarlet. Or green, like the… the neckerchief… *thing* that seems determined either to slip down my neck or half-strangle me. Or scarlet *and* green like the overly wide, stiff belt that *really* isn’t necessary to hold the shorts up. I’m just glad that Mr Baelish decided to stick with the usual black for the shorts and tops. Maybe the red piping is a bit less… understated than on the normal blouses, but it’s not *too* horrible. Not really.

Oh, if only these clothes weren’t so tight! And… and… *tiny*.

Did I give Mr Baelish the wrong measurements or something? I don’t *think* I did, but… Or could the company have sent the wrong size? Oh, never mind. There’s no point in making a fuss about it. At least it’s only for four days. I can survive for that long. I hope. In any case, I’ve never been more relieved to tie on my apron.

Not that it covers all that much but, like the tights, it makes me feel a little better.

I am *so* glad I don’t have to walk home in this get-up. Hooray for calf-length skirts and thick woolly jumpers! If only that’s what I was wearing right now. But I’m not, so I guess I just have to grin and bear (bare?) it. Maybe if I act like there’s nothing out of the ordinary, no one will notice the uniform, or how uncomfortable I am in it. Dredging up every bit of self-confidence I can find, I hold my head up high (fighting my natural urge to hunch around myself) and head out into the shop. (I’m aiming for something like Daenerys’ bold, confident stride. I’m not sure I entirely succeed.)

I notice that Mr Baelish is putting in one of his rare appearances in the front, standing behind the counter and surveying the shop with a genial, proprietary air. He turns towards me as I emerge from the safety and shelter of the back, looking me up and down. His smile widens in a way that makes me feel (uncomfortable) even more self-conscious than I already am, despite my best efforts. I catch myself trying to adjust my apron, trying to cover my embarrassment as best as I can. Unfortunately, that’s not very well.

I make myself stop fidgeting and look in the vague direction of his eyes.

“My, you look lovely, Sansa,” he says, practically murmuring the words so that I have to lean in a little to hear him over the hubbub of the shop. “The new uniform fits you *perfectly*.”

It does?

“Um, thank you.”

“Of course, all my ladies look wonderful,” he says, as if confiding a secret. “But you really put the ‘hot’ in Hot Coffee.”

“Um…” I have absolutely no idea what to say to that.

I fight the urge to cross my arms over my chest. Mr Baelish chuckles.

“Don’t look so nervous, Sansa, I don’t bite.” He winks at me. “Well, not unless you’re *very* naughty. Or maybe very nice.” He looks me up and down again. (Out of nowhere, a memory comes to me. Upstairs at a party, just me and… and *him*. Before everything went… No, before I knew what he was. The way he looked at me then…) I just look at Mr Baelish, unsure what to say. His expression turns thoughtful. “So, which is it, Sansa?” He asks softly. “Naughty, or nice?”

“Um…” My gaze dances away from him, skittering around in search of I-don’t-know-what. It alights on Asha, who’s looking our way and frowning. (I’m not alone here. And I’m not the same girl I was back then.) Suddenly, I find myself standing up straighter, looking Mr Baelish in the eyes. I give him a bright, empty smile. “Excuse me, Mr Baelish; I need to get to work. It’s getting busy out there.” I gesture towards the shop, where more customers are trickling in to join the small throng clustering around the tills. Not waiting for him to reply, I hurry to join the others.

Well, *that* was weird. There’s no time to worry about it now, though. This place is positively jumping, and we really do need all hands on deck and all minds on the job at hand. I start to go and clear tables, but Shae stops me.

“Can you please take over from Missandei making drinks?” She gives Missandei a slightly harried smile. “You’re doing very well, but I think Sansa is faster, and we need to catch up. If you could clear tables, that would be a big help.”

Missandei nods. “Very well,” she says, without inflection.

Is she upset? Annoyed? Indifferent? I can’t tell. As we switch places, I give her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry,” I say.

She shrugs easily, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards in one of her understated smiles. “No apologies necessary. You *are* faster.” She starts to turn away, but pauses to add: “At least for the moment.”

I can’t help but smile back, feeling the tension in my neck and shoulders ease. (Apparently, the possibility of even a minor confrontation can still make me cringe a little inside. I really hoped I was moving past that. I guess I still have some way to go yet.)

“Alright,” I say to Shae, sliding in beside her at the machine. The board is positively festooned with orders. From the looks of things, Shae is dealing with Asha’s customers. “Shall I take Ygritte’s orders?”

“Please,” she says, not looking up from the drink she’s making. (A triple shot mocha, by the looks of it. We might have to peel someone off the ceiling shortly…)

I get to work.

 

* * * * *

 

Time passes in a blur of shots and syrups, but eventually the glut of orders start to slow, and then stop. I sigh and straighten up, tilting my head to ease my aching neck. I’m briefly puzzled by the thing wrapped around my throat, but then it all comes back to me. The seasonal uniform. My self-consciousness. The sudden urge to bolt for the back and hide from all the people I suddenly feel are staring at me, judging me, laughing at me.

One good thing about the rush — at least it kept me too busy to worry.

Under cover of stretching out the knots and kinks in my spine, I risk a quick glance around the shop. No one’s looking at me. They’re all busy with their own conversations, their own lives. No one cares about one embarrassed, under-dressed beanpole. Why would they?

My quick scan of the room also shows me that Mr Baelish has disappeared again; presumably back into his office to do whatever it is he does back there. I’m not entirely sure, and something stops me from wanting to ask him about it. I suppose it will just have to remain a mystery. For now, I’m just relieved he isn’t here, looking at me like (a predator looking at prey) he’s inspecting me. Saying those things that (make me feel so uncomfortable) I don’t quite understand.

But I’m probably just overreacting.

(“Don’t be silly, Sansa. Of course Mr Clegane wasn’t *looking* at you. Why on earth would he? It’s not like you’re anything special. I know he looks… unusual, but I thought you had better manners than to judge someone by their appearance. It’s terribly childish. Honestly, sometimes I don’t know what my son sees in you…”)

“Well, that was exhausting,” Ygritte sighs, slumping dramatically over the till.

Asha rolls her eyes. “Congratulations,” she says flatly. “Now you know what it feels like to work your arse off.”

Ygritte draws herself up with great dignity. “I’ll have you know,” she says, loftily, “that I know everything there is to know about working my *fabulous* arse.” Of course, she then rather spoils the whole aloof thing by wiggling the body part in question (those shorts really *are* tight) and sticking her tongue out at Asha, pulling the most horrendous face as she does so.

I burst out laughing.

Asha turns to me with a raised eyebrow, but rather than quelling my mirth, it only makes me giggle harder.

“Sorry,” I mumble, clapping my hand to my mouth. “It’s just…” I wave my other hand vaguely in the direction of Ygritte, who’s now looking like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. “Never mind.” With an immense effort, I manage to bring myself somewhat back under control.

Shaking her head, Asha mutters: “I’m surrounded by children.”

Ygritte and I meet each other’s eyes, and then simultaneously erupt into giggles. Missandei looks curiously at the pair of us as she comes back behind the counter.

“What is so funny?”

I shrug helplessly, not even knowing how to answer that. I guess I’m just feeling a little giddy at the moment. Maybe it’s because I’m in love.

All of a sudden, I find that I’m able to stop laughing after all. Ygritte follows shortly thereafter. Grinning, she slaps Asha lightly on the shoulder.

“Lighten up, Poker-Face. You were in full blown stick-up-the-arse mode. Even you have to admit that shit’s hilarious.”

“As I said.” Asha enunciates the words very precisely, glaring at Ygritte’s hand meaningfully until the offending appendage is removed from her shoulder. “*Children*.”

Missandei frowns, opening her mouth to speak, but Shae interrupts.

“Best not to ask,” she says, her eyes twinkling. In a stage whisper, she adds: “Just enjoy the show.”

Asha snorts. “Apparently it’s silly season,” she tells Missandei, although not unkindly. I half-suspect that she’s actually enjoying playing the straight-woman to the rest of us clowns, but I know better than to speculate on that aloud. I don’t think Asha would take kindly to me suggesting that she’s not half the serious grouchy-grump she pretends to be.

“It is Christmas,” Missandei notes, causing Ygritte to groan loudly and theatrically.

“Oh god, don’t remind me. This music is driving me *crazy*!” We all fall silent, letting the latest number on the soundtrack — the original version of ‘Last Christmas’ (I think I actually prefer the new Ariana Grande version) — wash over us. Ygritte shudders exaggeratedly and turns to Asha with a pleading expression. “Can’t you get Littlefinger to put something else on? *Anything* else! I’m so sick of Christmas music I could break something.”

I automatically glance around, cataloguing the breakable objects in Ygritte’s reach. Not that I really think she’s just going to start smashing things, but… I surreptitiously slide a stack of glasses further along the counter. As I do so, I can’t help noticing that the workstations are looking a little messy, so I start clearing up.

“I’ve tried,” Asha growls. “But apparently this is a directive from head office. No leeway. ‘Consistency of the internal environment’ or something. Which is fair enough, but those fuckers in head office don’t have to cope with this shit for hours on end.” She shrugs “Feel free to have a go, though.”

“Already tried,” Ygritte sighs. “But if I can’t change his mind like this” — she waves a hand at herself and pats the shorts where the material pulls the tightest (I quickly look away) — “then it isn’t happening.”

Which reminds me…

“So,” I begin, a little hesitantly. “What do you all think of these ‘seasonal uniforms’?”

“Exploitative as fuck,” Asha says decisively. “I refused to wear it.”

“What?” Sure enough, she’s still wearing her usual trousers and shirt. I hadn’t really noticed. “I didn’t think we had a choice…”

She snorts. “What’s he going to do? Fire me? Then he’d actually have to do his fucking job, including all the tedious shit, rather than running around playing politics and leering at anything female. Not to mention I’d slap him with a wrongful dismissal suit — with bonus ‘hostile workplace’ action — so fast it’d make his head spin.”

Sometimes, I really envy Asha’s ability to stand up for herself. I wonder if I could… But no. It’s much easier to replace a barista than an assistant manager, and I need this job.

“It is… a little short,” Missandei says quietly. “And tight.” I nod and tug at the hem of my shorts, then notice that she’s doing the same. We exchange sympathetic glances.

“It’s just a uniform,” Shae says, shrugging dismissively. “Not worth getting worked up over. I’ve worn worse in my time. At least here, we’re not expected to let the customers grope us.”

“Don’t give Baelish any ideas,” Asha mutters darkly. “And if anyone tries anything like that, tell me. I’ll boot them so hard their grandchildren will feel it.”

“I can look after myself,” Shae snaps back, but then she stops and takes a breath, giving Asha a small smile. “But thank you. I… appreciate the sentiment.”

“Well, aren’t you a bunch of prudes!” Ygritte exclaims. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about. This outfit is *fantastic*. I’m going out clubbing in this. Look how well it shows off my tits and arse?” Without warning, she pulls her apron off and does a little shimmy. I look away, blushing. “And the rest of you aren’t exactly hags. I mean, Shae has the face of an angel and the body of a succubus, Missandei might as well be Miss-Hips-Don’t-Lie, and if I had Sansa’s legs I’d never wear anything longer than mid-thigh. And even Asha’s got that whole ‘fierce warrior maiden’ thing going on. Total hotness, if you’re into that kind of thing.”

“Thank you so much,” Asha says, her voice so flat it’s practically two-dimensional. Missandei says nothing. My face flames hotly, and I look at the floor.

“Um, thanks?” I mutter, hoping Ygritte will change the subject.

“Well, Ygritte,” Shae says. “You might find this hard to believe, but not everyone likes being the centre of attention.” Her feet appear in my field of vision, shortly followed by her arm around me in a loose embrace. I find it reassuring. After a moment or two, I even feel able to drag my gaze up from the floor.

Ygritte looks at Shae with a look of complete incomprehension.

“I’m just saying that we’re a damn fine looking bunch of bitches, and my philosophy is: if you’ve got it, flaunt it.”

“We know you like to flaunt it,” Asha notes, grinning wryly. “The whole fucking city knows. Probably half the country knows.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she pouts.

“Not at all,” Shae says swiftly, stepping in before Asha can reply. “But not everyone feels the same way. Or has your confidence.”

“Well, that’s a crying shame,” she says. “Because if we all went out dressed like this, I’m telling you we would slay them in the clubs. It would be total carnage.” She nods decisively, like she’s just made her point, so certain of herself that I find myself imagining what it would be like.

Me, strutting along like I don’t have a care in the world. Feeling all eyes on me, and not only not minding, but actually, actively revelling in it. Smiling at the wolf-whistles, rather than flinching at them.

(“You’re smart, creative, funny, pretty, and graceful, and I really wish you could see that. I wish you could see what I see when I-”)

No. No, I can’t see it. That just isn’t me.

(“What a great, gangling thing you are. But you could be almost pretty if you smiled more.”)

(“You’re not going out with me dressed like that. Change into something sexy, and hurry up about it. You’d better not make us late.”)

In my mind, the whistles and admiring smiles turn into jeers and laughter. Ugly, unkind sounds.

No, it’s not me at all.

I flinch and push it away, all of it; even the voices. (Well, maybe not Daenerys’ voice. She says such nice things.) Shae gives me a concerned look.

“Are you alright?” she asks, softly.

“Yes, fine,” I say, mustering up a smile. “Just feeling a little self-conscious. I don’t normally wear things like this.”

“Maybe you should,” Ygritte chimes in. “I could take you shopping if you like. I remember seeing a cute little skirt in Void the other day that you could totally rock.”

“Um, thanks Ygritte, but I think I’m happy with my usual style.” My smile starts to feel less like a rictus and more like the real thing as I realise that she seems to be taking my rejection of her no-doubt kindly-meant offer with equanimity. “Anyway, I don’t really have the money for random clothes shopping at the moment.”

“Suit yourself,” she says affably. “Just let me know if you change your mind. The offer’s still open.”

“I will,” I assure her, feeling secure in the knowledge that it’s never going to happen. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she says, then looks around at the others with raised eyebrows. “How about the rest of you?”

Asha just snorts and heads off to buss tables.

“No, thank you,” Shae says, sounding amused. She tightens her arm around me, briefly, and then starts loading the dishwasher. I glance over at Missandei, who seems… thoughtful.

“I’m not sure the styles on offer in Void would really suit me,” she muses. “But I would appreciate a shopping companion.”

“Awesome!” Ygritte ties on her apron with a flourish. “By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be a knockout. Well, more of a knockout. Are you free tomorrow morning?” At Missandei’s nod, she grins widely. “Great. Tomorrow it is. So, tell me…” She lowers her voice a little, leaning in conspiratorially. “Are you glamming it up for anyone in particular, or just because.”

I try to look like I’m focused on clearing up and not listening to this conversation with interest. (It’s not eavesdropping, not really. I mean they’re right there, and they’re not even trying to keep their voices down.)

Missandei shrugs and purses her mouth.

“Perhaps there may be someone,” she says quietly.

“Guy or girl?” Ygritte asks.

“A guy.”

Well, I guess that answers a question I haven’t been able to bring myself to ask.

“And are the two of you…?” Ygritte makes some really rather rude hand gestures. I try (unsuccessfully) not to blush.

Missandei raises an eyebrow, but all she says is: “No. But he likes me.”

“And you like him?”

“Yes.” She smiles a little now, shyly. “He asked me on a date yesterday, and I agreed.”

“Wait,” I say, giving up all pretence of not listening. “Is this the guy you’re tutoring? The one you were with last night? Grey, um…”

“Ghaysun, yes.”

“And… is that why you got back so late?” I don’t know exactly what time she got home, but it was definitely after I conked out, and that was past midnight.

“Yes,” she says, her smile widening just a little. I smile back at her, letting her see how pleased I am for her. For them. I *knew* she liked him. Well, maybe not ‘knew,’ but I had an idea.

“When’s the big date?” Ygritte wants to know.

“Thursday evening.”

“Great. Okay, so, let’s talk styles…”

Shae nudges me, then backs off a few steps, beckoning me to follow her. Curious, I do so.

“So,” she says softly. “You stayed at Daenerys and Missandei’s place last night?”

“I took your advice,” I tell her, just as quietly. “I talked to Daenerys about… You know.”

“And did it help?”

“I think so, yes.”

She looks at me consideringly. “You seem better today than yesterday,” she notes. I just nod, wiping at a counter that’s already clean. Shae starts to say something else, but then the bell tings, announcing another customer. I look up to see Reza making his way to the counter. And Ygritte abandoning her conversation with Missandei to practically pounce on him.

Should I go over? I never did get around to letting him know that he’d caught Ygritte’s eye. But maybe he’d like her to pounce on him. And after the whole debacle with Daenerys and Reza, I’m a little wary of interfering where I’m not wanted. I dither for a few moments more, then drift towards my workstation, coincidentally putting myself in Reza’s eye line. His gaze locks onto mine like it’s laser-guided.

“Sansa! Hi!” he says, sounding a little breathless.

“Hi Reza,” I say. “Single shot latte to go?”

“That’s right,” he says, nodding.

I turn to Ygritte. “I’ll get started on it. Do you want to ring it up?”

“Sure,” she says cheerfully. I can’t help noticing that she bends forward further than seems strictly necessary when she takes Reza’s loyalty card and money. And her apron somehow seems to have slipped down to reveal her cleavage. Reza swallows noticeably. To his credit, he manages to keep his eyes on her face.

Huh. Apparently, under certain circumstances, he also blushes. That’s interesting to note.

“How’s it going?” I call to him, when he seems to have trouble extricating himself.

“Oh, um, fine, thanks.” He gives Ygritte a somewhat flustered smile as she finally hands him his change. “Thanks,” he says to her. “And excuse me.” He makes a beeline for the other end of the counter. I join him there shortly, sliding over his drink.

“There you go.”

“Thanks,” he says. A moment later, he murmurs: “Your colleague is very, um… forceful.”

“Ygritte thinks you’re attractive,” I murmur back.

He blinks at me, looking startled.

“She does?”

I nod. “That’s why she was flirting with you.”

“She was?”

Oh my word, he’s almost as clueless as I am. At least I realised that Margaery was flirting with me. (And I am *not* thinking about that — or what it led to — right now.)

“She was. Trust me.”

“Oh,” he says, looking like a light bulb has just gone on inside his brain. “Oh, I see.” He glances surreptitiously over to where she’s chatting with Shae and Missandei.

I try to think of a subtle way to ask the question I want to ask, but when nothing comes to mind I decide to break with my usual habits and go for the direct approach.

“Are you interested in her?”

“Am I…? Um, I don’t know. She is pretty, but… I don’t really know her.”

“Well, she’s definitely interested in getting to know you better,” I murmur.

He’s quiet for a moment. “Do I have to decide right now?”

I shrug. “I wouldn’t think so. She’ll happily flirt with you until and unless you ask her not to. If you respond positively, though, she might well proposition you at some point.”

“Oh.”

He’s starting to look seriously overwhelmed. I search my mind for something I could say to reassure him, somewhat bemused to find myself in the position of giving someone else advice on their love life.

“It’s okay,” I tell him softly. “If you’re not interested, you can just tell her. She won’t be offended. And if you are interested, well… She’s a nice person. I’m sure you’d have fun with her.” I try very, very hard not to think about what kind of fun that would be.

“I’ll… I’ll think about it,” he says, seeming a little less frantic. “Um, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, giving him a small smile. “Although I’m not sure I was much help.”

“You were, trust me,” he replies earnestly.

“Good.”

I turn away briefly to put an empty milk bag into the bin. When I turn back, Reza is staring at me goggle-eyed.

“Great googly-moogly, Sansa! What on earth are you wearing? Or, aren’t you wearing?”

“Um, seasonal uniforms,” I mutter, trying to pull my apron up and down at the same time. It’s horrible, isn’t it?”

“That’s… not the first word I would have chosen,” he says, sounding a little strangled. “Do you… Are you actually going to walk home in that?”

“Good god, no!” I say, utterly horrified at the thought. “I have a skirt and jumper to change into. Or at least to put over the top. I’d freeze to death if I tried to walk home in this. Not to mention die of embarrassment. It’s… it’s indecent!”

“It doesn’t leave very much to the imagination, that’s for sure.”

“Great,” I mutter. “Now I feel even more self-conscious.”

“I’m sorry,” Reza says, sounding genuinely apologetic. “I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. It looks good on you, honestly. And it isn’t really indecent. I mean, it’s not like you’re standing around in your underwear.”

“I feel like I practically am.” I cross my arms over my chest, unable to resist the urge to cover myself any longer.

“People wear less out when they go out clubbing.”

I shake my head vehemently. “I don’t. Not that I go out clubbing, but even if I did, I wouldn’t.”

“Well, you could if you wanted,” he says, valiantly trying to pull me out of my sudden funk. “Really. You look fine. Um, better than fine, actually. Not that I was looking, because I wasn’t. But you really don’t need to worry. I shouldn’t have said anything at all, sorry. It just caught me a little by surprise that’s all. Please don’t feel self-conscious on my account.”

I sigh heavily, trying to breathe out all the panic and the negative thoughts with the expelled carbon dioxide.

“It’s alright, Reza. You don’t need to apologise. You haven’t done anything wrong.” And I’m perfectly capable of feeling self-conscious on my own account. Out of the blue, I wonder if Daenerys will be stopping by this evening. I’m not sure how I feel about the thought of her seeing me like this. Maybe she won’t even notice. I mean, she did say she’s not body conscious. So maybe my scandalously under-clad state won’t even register with her.

Maybe.

(Although she did seem to notice my too-short nightie this morning…)

“But I just want to-“

“Here’s a tip for you, kid,” Asha interrupts as she walks past with a tray of dirty crockery and cutlery. “When in hole, stop digging.”

Reza winces. “Right. Thanks.” He takes a breath. “Sorry. Can we just forget that part of the conversation ever happened?”

“Already forgotten,” I reassure him, trying to make that true. We chat for a few minutes longer — just long enough for the residual awkwardness to fade away so we can return to our usual comfortable manner — and then Reza takes his leave. Ygritte calls out a sultry goodbye to him as he leaves. He smiles and waves to her.

I wonder if he will let her get to know him better. Either way, I hope he doesn’t get hurt.

I guess I’ll just have to look out for him.

It’s what friends do, after all.


	26. Chapter 26

My shift passes fairly uneventfully, alternating pretty evenly between being rushed off my feet and standing around trying to find something to do. Daenerys doesn’t show up, which leaves me feeling both relieved and disappointed in equal measure. (Okay, maybe more the latter than the former.) During one of the slower periods, Asha comes over to me.

“Hey, Stark,” she says. “You look about ready for a break.”

“Um, I guess. I’m happy to wait a bit longer if someone else wants to go, though.”

“Now’s good. You can join me. Let’s go for a walk.”

“What? But we’re not supposed to… I mean, Mr Baelish is here.”

“It’s okay if I say it’s okay. And Baelish won’t say anything if he knows what’s good for him. Anyway, we won’t be gone long. I’ll grab us some drinks for the road. You go and get your coat.”

Dread starts to trickle through me like ice water in my veins. Asha wants to talk with me away from everyone else. That sounds like a capital-T Talk to me, and there aren’t many things I can think of that she might want to discuss… Does she know about Margaery? Is she going to tell me off about taking advantage of Loras’ younger sister? Or could it be something to do with spending the night at Daenerys’ house? (She couldn’t possibly think that… Could she? No. No, that’s ridiculous. I’m being ridiculous. Whatever she wants to talk to me about, it definitely can’t be *that*.)

Breathe, Sansa. Just breathe.

Okay. Alright. If Asha was annoyed at me, I wouldn’t have to wonder. She’s not one for keeping her irritation to herself. If she has a problem with someone, they darn well know about it. So, whatever it’s about, it’s unlikely to involve a dressing down.

Maybe she just wants to make sure I’m okay. I mean, I was pretty much a mess yesterday. And maybe she’s noticed the way Shae’s been hovering around me a little today, looking concerned. I certainly noticed. And I appreciate it, really. I just can’t help hoping it wasn’t so obvious to anyone else. I don’t mean to sound ungrateful, but I really could do without everyone and their dog thinking I’m so fragile I need someone to watch out for me.

(There seem to be an awful lot of people watching out for me these days. It’s… kind of nice, actually. I just worry sometimes that’s because they think I’m weak.)

Belatedly, I realise that I never told Asha what drink I wanted. Or even offered to pay. (I’ve really become quite the freeloader lately. All these drinks people keep buying for me. Often as accompaniment to a Talk of some kind… I think I’m spotting a trend.)

Oh! I’d better go and get ready.

Relief fills me as I pull off that awful neckerchief and throw on my skirt and jumper. Those garish tights are still visible through the gap between the hem of my skirt and the top of my boots, but I don’t care. It’s just so wonderful to feel properly clothed again. (To not feel like some kind of… of *streetwalker*.)

If only the feeling wasn’t soured by the nervous anticipation gnawing holes in my stomach.

When I return to the front of the shop, Asha has her coat on and Missandei is putting the finishing touches to our drinks. Well, my drink. I’m guessing the almost-certainly-double-shot espresso is Asha’s.

“Mocha okay?” are Asha’s only words to me.

“That’s great, thank you,” I tell her, smiling so she won’t think I’m ungrateful. “But you didn’t have to-“

“It’s cold out there,” she says, cutting me off. “Now let’s go.”

I can’t help but notice the curious looks the other three are sending our way. I wonder if I’ll have to fend off interested questions from them when we get back. Oh well. At least I’ll know what it’s about by that point.

Maybe it’s something innocuous. LH Soc stuff, perhaps.

Or maybe it’s something serious.

Maybe… Maybe I should stop worrying and wait to hear what Asha has to say.

We walk in silence, Asha setting a brisk pace as she leads me through the town. She seems to have a destination in mind and, somehow, I am entirely unsurprised when we end up in front of *that* church, sitting on *that* bench. Well, I sit on the bench. Asha remains standing, leaning on a wall. Apparently this has become my Serious Talk bench after all.

Assuming that this is going to be a Serious Talk.

(It’s totally going to be a Serious Talk.)

I look up from my drink to see Asha studying me thoughtfully, maybe even… hesitantly? It takes me a moment to recognise the expression; so alien on her features.

Yes, this is *definitely* going to be a Serious Talk.

I take a fortifying sip of my mocha.

“Margaery’s a nice kid,” Asha says abruptly, apropos of nothing.

My eyes fly wide open, and I just stare at her, flabbergasted. “Um…?” I wasn’t expecting her to just launch right into it! Although, thinking about it, I don’t know why I wasn’t. This *is* Asha, after all.

“She’s not a bad choice for a fling, even a first fling,” she continues. A peculiar expression flitters across her face, there and gone again before I can figure out what it is. “Much better than certain people,” she mutters.

“Um…” I say again, mentally reeling. (If I was more compos mantis, I’d be tempted to ask Asha what ‘certain people’ she’s talking about — even though I’m pretty sure I know — but I’m completely knocked for six right now. Instead, I tuck the thought away for a time when I’m not so flummoxed.)

She looks me over assessingly. I stare back, feeling like I’m carved from solid ice. Like I’m literally frozen in place, rather than merely figuratively.

“She didn’t say anything, don’t worry.”

I think that’s meant to be reassuring, and I guess it is in a way. But it’s also *terrifying*, because if Margaery didn’t say anything, then how did *Asha* know? Did Shae talk to her? I doubt it. So, then, does *everybody* know? Was it that obvious? Did people know what we were going to do before… before *we* did? (Oh god. Was I giving off signals or something? Did I seem like I… wanted Margaery? Was I acting like one of those girls?)

Asha sighs and sits next to me on the bench. “Loras figured it out when she got back from your place.” She shrugs lopsidedly, giving me a tiny, rueful grin. “Apparently he knows his sister pretty well.” The grin fades. “Renly figured it out too. And he… wasn’t quite as discreet about it as Loras.” I inhale sharply, and she puts out a hand as if to stop me running away. Like I could even think about standing right now. “I don’t mean that he ran around telling everyone,” she says swiftly. “But he apparently said enough. And with the way the two of you were flirting on Sunday…” She shrugs.

Somehow, I manage to find my voice.

“Everyone *knows*?”

“I wouldn’t say *everyone*, and I wouldn’t say they *know* so much as are making certain assumptions… But, yeah. Most of LH Soc probably knows.” She shrugs again, looking like she’d rather be anywhere but here, having this conversation. I know the feeling. “What can I say? People like to gossip, and our society is no exception.” She shakes her head and sighs. “Sometimes I think they might be among the worst in that regard.”

“But…” Even though I’m outside, it feels like walls are contracting around me, caging me in. My skin feels taut and prickly — like I’ve been rolling in stinging nettles — and I can’t seem to catch my breath.

Everyone *knows*. They know that… They know…

What must they think of me? How am I ever going to look any of them in the eyes again? How am I going to be able to look at *Loras* knowing that… that…

Oh god. I can never go back there again.

“Sansa. Sansa, look at me.” I’m only dimly aware of Asha’s voice filtering through the haze of panic and self-loathing. I try to make myself focus on her voice, look at her like I’m not shattering into a million tiny pieces right now, but it’s just too hard. “Sansa!”

She barks out my name like an order, like the crack of a whip, the unexpected command snapping me out of my fugue. The breath I draw into aching lungs feels like my first one in a while. No wonder Asha sounds worried.

“Sorry,” I whisper through dry lips. I clear my throat and try again, meeting her gaze with something approximating a smile. “I spaced out for a moment there, but I’m okay. You don’t need to worry.”

I’ll figure this out somehow. Although I can’t for the life of me think how.

Asha shows her opinion of my last statement by snorting derisively and muttering: “Don’t need to worry, my left tit.” She frowns at me. “You’re as white as a sheet. Drink your mocha.”

I obey numbly, barely even tasting the sugary confection. It feels a tad ungracious to pay so little attention to Missandei’s craftsmanship, not to mention like I’m not showing the proper amount of appreciation for Asha’s gift, but I can’t bring myself to care too much right now.

“Thanks for the drink,” I say mechanically, unable to remember if I’ve thanked her already.

“You’re welcome,” she says, and then lets out a short, sharp bark of laughter. “It seemed like the least I could do when I was dropping this news.” She shrugs. “Loras asked me to talk to you,” she continues quietly, not looking at me. “He thought you’d appreciate knowing that your night with Margaery wasn’t precisely a secret. He thought you’d want to know. And so did I. I know I’d sure as shit want to know about it if it was me.”

No. No, I don’t want to know. I wish I could just forget the whole thing, forget Asha even breathed a word to me. I’d be happier in blissful ignorance, still believing my private life to be private. Secret. Hidden. Believing that no one was whispering about me behind their hands. Laughing at me. (Despising me.)

Except…

Except it couldn’t last, could it? Someone would say something, drop some hint, ask loaded questions. I’d realise eventually. And then how much of a fool would I feel? It’s bad enough right now, being slapped in the face with my own ignorant naiveté. Days, weeks or even months down the line it would be so much worse.

“You’re right,” I say, matching her quiet, serious tone. “I’d rather know.”

“Good,” she says, seeming to relax her shoulders the tiniest amount. I hadn’t even realised she was tense. I guess this can’t exactly be pleasant for her, either. She raises one hand, and I brace in anticipation of one of her hearty backslaps, but all she does is place it lightly on my shoulder for a moment or two. For Asha, that’s positively tender. “You don’t need to worry,” she says. “You’ll probably have to put up with a few ribald comments for a while — mainly from Renly, unless Loras manages to rein him in — but they’ll forget soon enough. Someone else will do something else gossip-worthy and then it’ll be their turn in the limelight. You’ll see. It’s not the end of the world.”

Will it really be that easy? I was expecting (to be punished for my transgressions) that there would be consequences to being found out, although I’m not too sure what I was expecting those to be. This seems an awful lot like getting off lightly.

I can’t help wondering when the other shoe’s going to drop.

“I guess,” I say, belatedly realising that I should probably say *something*. I wouldn’t want Asha to think I was suffering another malfunction.

“You okay?” she says, after a while.

I take a drink to give myself time to turn the question over in my mind.

“I think so.” I heave a deep sigh, wondering how long it’s going to take me to face anyone from LH Soc without blushing. “Embarrassed,” I say with feeling. As for Loras… It doesn’t even bear thinking about. But I was thinking of talking to him, wasn’t I? Maybe I should ask Asha about that.

“Why embarrassed?” I stare at her, completely lost for words. How can she even ask that? Why *wouldn’t* I be embarrassed? Everyone saw me throwing myself at Margaery. Everyone knows I went to bed with her. What *isn’t* embarrassing about that? “Because people know you had sex?” Asha asks. I nod. Her eyes narrow. “Because they know you had sex with a girl?” I nod again, more hesitantly this time.

(I hope she doesn’t think badly of me for being embarrassed about that. I hope she doesn’t tell me off like Daenerys did.)

She snorts loudly, knocking back the rest of her coffee and giving me a sardonic grin. “Hell, Sansa, don’t you know the LH Soc crowd at all? They’re more likely to envy you than disapprove. So, you’re getting your end away. Good for you! Hip-hip-fucking-hooray.”

“Um…” But I don’t *have* an, um, ‘end’. And even if I did, what does ‘getting it away’ even mean? I think about saying something, but decide that discretion is the better part of valour.

Some questions are better off unasked.

“Look. I can’t say you won’t be mocked. You know and I know that some of our fellow re-enactors are truly irreverent motherfuckers. But no one’s going to be mean-spirited about it, not if they know what’s good for them. And if anyone does take it too far, send them to me and Loras. We’ll make sure to set them straight.”

“Loras?” My eyes widen in shock. I laugh a little nervously. “I can’t imagine I’m his favourite person right now. Why would he stick up for me?”

“Because you despoiled his baby sister?” she asks, bluntly. I wince, giving a jerky nod. Asha laughs heartily, clapping me solidly on the shoulder. (That’s the Asha I know.) “Oh, please,” she scoffs. “I don’t know what she might have said to you, but Margaery is no blushing maiden. And Loras does know his own sister. Trust me, he was more worried about *you*.”

“Oh,” I say softly, feeling my spirits start to lift a little. Maybe he doesn’t think badly of me after all. I suppose he did ask Asha to have a word, but that could mean anything. Maybe he just wants me to know that he knows. Maybe he’s plotting his revenge even as we…

Okay, now I’m being ridiculous. No matter how badly I’m freaking out, not even the voices in my head can convince me that Loras is plotting some dastardly vengeance against me. I know him better than that.

“So, are you good now?” Asha wants to know. She hesitates a moment, and then adds: “If you need to… talk… or anything, you can talk to me.” She says ‘talk’ like it’s a dirty word. “I’m not good with touchy-feely shit, but I can listen. If you’ve got questions, I can try to answer them.” Her lips twist in a brief, lopsided grin. “Believe it or not, what you’re going through isn’t completely alien to me. And, most importantly, I can and will tell you when you’ve got your head stuck up your arse.”

Much to my surprise, I find myself smiling back at her. “Thanks,” I say, meaning it from the bottom of my heart. I know Shae said I shouldn’t talk to Asha about this, but it actually doesn’t seem to be going at all badly. I could really come to appreciate her no-nonsense brand of sympathy. Besides, I think she’s actually trying to be tactful. And — certainly by her standards — succeeding. Maybe this is the time to ask how best to talk to Loras about ‘courting’ Margaery. I try to figure out how to phrase the question, but what actually ends up coming out of my mouth is: “Do you think I’m a slut?”

Oh.

That wasn’t what I was planning to ask at *all*. Not even close! But… I guess it’s something I’ve kind of been worrying about, a little. (Okay, a lot.) And I couldn’t ask Daenerys; I just *couldn’t*. Especially not after the… unpleasantness… over what happened with Jeyne. What if she thinks badly of me? (What if the answer is yes?)

But Asha… I don’t want her to think badly of me either, of course, but at least the mere thought of it doesn’t make me feel panicky and sick. (Not like when I remember that cold, hard look in Daenerys’ eyes. Not like when I imagine her deciding that she doesn’t want to be friends any more. Not when I think about losing her.) Actually… I think Asha might be the only person I *can* ask.

Which is just as well, because the words are already out there and I can’t take them back.

And Asha’s reaction is… to stare blankly at me.

And stare.

And stare some more.

Oh no. That’s a bad sign, isn’t it? It means the answer is yes, but she’s trying to figure out how to say that tactfully. She thinks…

I bite my lip.

“What?” she says blankly, and I belatedly realise that the expression on her face isn’t censure but, rather, shock.

She’s… surprised by the question?

“Because I…” I can’t say it, not again, not even euphemistically. Slept with. Had sex with. F… Nonono. *No*. No, I can’t. I just can’t. “You know,” I say instead, flailing my hands around as if that will distract from the sheer awkwardness of this. Like a magician using sleight of hand to make the audience look in the wrong direction. (But if I was that magician, I’d fumble the pass and drop the whatever-it-is with a crash, drawing attention to the very thing I was trying to hide. And I think this metaphor’s gotten away from me now.) “With Margaery,” I clarify. “After… After only knowing her for two days.” One and a half, really, but I can’t bring myself to correct that. But Asha is still staring at me, so I repeat my original question, torn between hoping she’ll answer this time and actively dreading her reply. “Do you think I’m a-” I choke on the word, my throat constricting so that, when I finally manage to make myself finish, it emerges barely above a whisper. “A slut?”

She shakes her head, and my heart leaps, but then I realise that’s not her answer. It’s more like she’s trying to clear her mind, or jolt her thoughts into gear. (The kind of thing it seems I’m always having to do these days. When did my life get so brain-breaking?)

“*Fuck*!” she exclaims, the harsh sound of the expletive seeming to echo like a gunshot in an alleyway; making me jump, making me gasp, bringing me to the edge of fight-or-flight. (Not that I ever fight. No, not that I ever *used to* fight. Now? Now, there’s a chance things might go differently.) Which is beyond ridiculous, because this is Asha, not (him)… not anyone who might hurt me.

(When will I stop twitching like a scared rabbit — like a mouse, like a *coward* — every time there’s a loud noise or a sudden movement? It will happen, won’t it? Sooner or later? Or am I destined to be a jittery bag of nerves for the rest of my life?)

(No, I won’t believe that. I won’t let myself believe it. It *will* get better.)

(Eventually.)

“Where do I even begin?” Asha murmurs, after what feels like a lifetime. With that distant tone, it sounds more like she’s talking to herself than to me. She draws in an audible breath and meets my gaze. Even knowing better (even though she’s not Daenerys), it’s all I can do not to flinch away in anticipation of her despite, but her eyes hold nothing like that. I can’t read everything that lies in their depths, but I think there’s kindness there. Sympathy, maybe. (Sorrow?) Something soft and gentle, not piercing and hard. “You were a virgin, weren’t you?” I nod, not trusting my voice enough to attempt speech. “Well, I think we can safely say that a single one-night stand doesn’t make you a slut.” I start to relax, but she’s not done yet. “But even if you were, why would that be bad?”

Now it’s my turn to stare in shock.

“I, um, it… Well… It just would.” A frown line develops between her eyes. “Wouldn’t it?” I ask, uncertainly.

“Why?”

“Well, because…” I’m thoroughly confused now, struggling to put a coherent response together. I’ve never had to… I mean, isn’t it obvious? Isn’t it just one of those things that everybody knows? But it’s clear she’s not going to accept ‘it just is’ as a reason. “Good girls just don’t… don’t do that kind of thing.”

“Have sex, you mean?”

I can’t help it; I cringe a little at the matter-of-fact way she says that without hiding behind euphemisms or trailing off into silence or any of the things I often find myself doing, even in the privacy of my own head. Even as I flinch away from it, I can’t help admiring her for that.

I nod. “At least not with people they barely know,” I whisper.

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s just not… I mean, people will think they’re…” I trail off, realising that line of argument leads nowhere. Sure enough, she pounces on it like a cat with a mouse.

“People will think they’re sluts, you mean?” I nod (flinching a little at that word), already knowing what she’s going to say. She raises an eyebrow. “Bit recursive, isn’t it?”

“I’m not explaining very well,” I say. (I’m not used to having to explain something that I know to be true. That I thought everyone knew to be true.) “I think… It should…” Okay, I can do this. It’s just a word. I’m an adult, regardless of how much I sometimes feel like a child. I can say one little word. “Sex should mean something, shouldn’t it? Something special. A connection *with* someone special.” I shy away from saying the word love, let alone *true* love, but it’s what I’m thinking. “But how can it be special if it’s something you do just because… because… because you…”

(Because *I*…)

Oh.

“Because you want to?” she asks. I nod, unable to speak right now. “Because it feels good?” she continues. I nod again. She shrugs. “Might be true for some people. Not all. Anyway, it’s more complicated than that.

Apropos of nothing, I suddenly remember that, like Daenerys, Asha is a member of the university debating society. That… explains a lot. About both of them.

“Anyway,” she continues, her clipped tone growing more intense, more… passionate? “Philosophical wankery aside: sex isn’t a bad thing. Having sex doesn’t make you a bad person. *You’re* not a bad person because you had sex with Margaery.”

I shift uncomfortably on the bench, fidgeting restlessly. If my face gets any hotter, I think I might just spontaneously combust. Even *Asha* seems… not embarrassed — I’m not sure she’s even capable of the emotion — but… a little uncomfortable.

“Hmmm,” I say, trying to give the impression of agreeing with her.

“Not convinced, are you?” she asks, after a moment.

“I, um…” I don’t know how to answer that. “I’m sorry.”

I’m not even sure what I’m apologising for, but it feels necessary. Necessary, and yet wholly inadequate.

“No fucking apologies,” Asha snaps out in response, her words quiet yet forceful. “Not over this,” she adds in a gentler tone.

I almost say sorry again, but manage to stop myself just in time. Not in time to stop her noticing, though. “Almost apologised for apologising, didn’t you?” Her lips twist into a bitter sort-of smile, acridly amused.

“No.”

“Bullshit,” she says, but mildly. Like she can’t quite bring herself to call me out properly on my blatant lie. She’s quiet for a moment — we both are, each apparently lost in our own thoughts — but then she speaks again. “Look, Sansa. I might not know exactly what your life has been like, but I reckon I can make a good guess. Traditional parents, right?” She grimaces. “Like mine. Well, my da.” My ears prick up at that, seizing on this hint that, contrary to appearances, she didn’t spring fully formed and adult from a progenitor’s brow. I want to ask more, but she keeps talking, leaving no opportunity for questions. “Bet you were fed all kinds of shit about your place in life, about what’s right and proper for a girl of your station. And a whole bunch of that revolved around being ‘good.’ That is: chaste, polite and *nice*. Am I right?”

Yes. Completely and utterly right. If she were any more right we’d be going round in circles.

“I guess so,” I say slowly.

“And don’t even get me started on all the media wank-splatter we’re immersed in on a daily basis,” she says, scowling.

“Um, I won’t,” I hasten to assure her, trying not to pull a disgusted face. I swear, she comes up with the most revolting terms sometimes.

“Point is,” she says. “When you’re growing up, you’re immersed in this… this culture of conformity. You’re told you have to look a certain way, act a certain way, *be* a certain way. Even if all the ways you’re supposed to be are contradictory, fucked up, or flat out unattainable for any sane and normal human being. And if you don’t measure up, you’re a freak. It’s fucking *toxic*!” I blink at her, feeling a little lost. Are we still talking about sex? “Sex is part of that,” she says, like she’s reading my mind. “Chaste. Pure. Virtuous. Frigid. Slut. Harlot. Whore.” She gives me a tight, bitter smile. “Compare and contrast: stud, player, gigolo. Get the picture?”

“I… think so,” I say, frowning. But this isn’t anything I didn’t already know, I want to tell her. I *know* it’s different for girls. Why does she think I’m so worried about people knowing? I don’t want to get a bad reputation. Is she trying to say it’s unfair? I know *that* already. But that doesn’t mean I can just ignore it.

Does it?

“It’s about control,” she says, thumping the arm of the bench for emphasis. I fight the urge to wince in sympathy with the inanimate object. Or with her hand, even though she doesn’t even seem to notice the impact. “It’s about getting us to internalise those fucked up values because we don’t have the vocabulary to frame it any other way. It’s about making us too scared to claim our own sexuality.”

I frown, turning her words over in my mind.

“Maybe that’s true,” I say hesitantly, not sure how she’s going to react. Heck, I’m still not entirely sure what I feel about what she said until I start trying to put it into words. “But what does that have to do with… with my situation? I mean, maybe society does have some warped views on sex. And… and maybe we should be trying to change that. I don’t know.” And even that vague questioning sentiment feels strangely daring for me. I even said the word sex without blushing! “But people think that way right now. And they judge. And I…” I shrug helplessly, not even close to being able to articulate properly what I mean. “I don’t want people to think I’m a slut.”

She’s quiet for a while. Long enough for me to regret my words. Long enough for me to imagine the worst. When she does finally open her mouth to speak, I cringe in anticipation of a scathing indictment of the kind of coward who cares what other people think of her. A coward like me.

“It’s alright to care what other people think of you.” Ooookay. I was *not* expecting that. “There’s nothing wrong with keeping your private life private. What you do — and who you do it with — is no one’s damn business but yours and the other people involved.” I… guess I have heard her express similar thoughts before, but I never thought… I mean, she always seems to do what she wants and be who she wants without giving two hoots for what anyone else might say. It’s one of the things I admire about her. “But,” she continues, and I might have known there’d be one of those coming. “Don’t think badly of *yourself*. Don’t internalise their poison. Do you understand?”

“I’m… not sure I do. Sorry.”

“Okay, think of it this way. Say it’s your cherished dream to fuck your way through half the halls on campus.” I can feel my eyebrows shoot up somewhere by my hairline, my mouth already opening in protest. “Relax,” she adds before I can speak. “Just a random example. I know you’re not planning a ‘Sansa does campus’ tour.” I subside again, trying to hide how deeply uncomfortable I am with this line of conversation. “But if you were,” she continues. “I’d say go for it. Whatever floats your boat. Just don’t think of *yourself* as a slut. Not in the ugly way this fucked up society tells us we should. Okay?”

Frowning a little, I nod slowly. I think I see what she’s saying, but…

She studies me for a moment, and then nods to herself.

“Okay, think about the other extreme,” she says. “Say you want to live a chaste and virginal life. Fucking-A. Or, not-fucking-A. It’s all good. But don’t think of yourself as frigid, or prudish, or any of the other words used to shame us. Don’t think it makes you less of a person.”

(“Are you frigid or something?”)

Ohhhhh…

I’d never thought of it like that before. Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t? I guess it is just two sides of the same coin. But… surely being a slut is worse than being a prude. Isn’t it?

I just don’t know any more.

Asha is still talking, so I hurriedly make myself focus on her words, rather than spiralling off into thoughts about what it all means.

“Point is. Virginal, promiscuous and everything in between: it’s up to you. Want to shout it from the rooftops? Also up to you. Keep it quieter than a mime convention? A-fucking-men. Because people judge like motherfuckers, and you don’t have to put up with that shit if you don’t want to. Do whatever the fuck you want, just *own* your choices. And don’t beat yourself up over them.” She bares her teeth in a fierce, feral grin. “Trust me; there are more than enough cunts out there who are willing to do it for you.”

I think about it. I think about it some more. And some more.

“So… It’s okay to not want other people to think I’m a slut, but *I* shouldn’t think I’m one? At least not in a bad way?”

“Close enough,” she says. “At least for now.”

This is a lot to take in, and I’m going to have to think through what it means; if it changes anything. (I’m not sure it does, not really. It’s all very well for her to tell me not to think badly of myself, but that’s easier said than done.)

(It really is so very hard, sometimes.)

“You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about,” I murmur.

Just… not right at the moment.

“Good,” she says, flashing me a grin before her expression sobers. “Listen,” she says softly. “I know you’re… friends with Dany and all, but it might be best not to talk about this with her.”

“What? Why?” Not that I was really planning on it, but…

Asha shrugs. “It’s human nature to judge, but some judge more than most. Probably best just to avoid a potential minefield.”

Is she…? Is she saying Daenerys *does* think I’m a slut? Or that she’d scoff of me for caring what people think of me? I guess I can see the second one, but… I’ve never really thought of Daenerys as the judgemental type. Maybe this is Asha’s history with her talking? Or… maybe it isn’t.

Anyway, it’s kind of a moot point, because I have no intention whatsoever of asking Daenerys if she thinks I’m… like that. Not in a million years. So where’s the harm in agreeing?

“Okay.”

“Good.” She looks relieved. We sit there for a little while, side by side, finishing off our coffees. I’m just starting to wonder how long we’ve been out here when she speaks again, making me jump. “So,” she says, in a much lighter tone. “Do I need to have a word with Margaery about despoiling *you*?”

“What? No!” I shake my head vehemently, willing her to believe me. The *last* thing I need right now is her having a ‘word’ with Margaery. It was bad enough when Daenerys tried to protect me from *Reza*. “It wasn’t like that. I was the one who started things! She didn’t…”

She didn’t do anything I didn’t want her to.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” she says quickly, cutting across my increasingly panicked — and increasingly high-pitched — yammering. “I was joking. Mostly. Getting involved in this kind of situation can easily turn into a multi-orifice clusterfuck of epic proportions. Not something I’d do lightly, and certainly not if I wasn’t damn sure you needed me to stick my oar in.” She eyes me speculatively. “Guessing you’re more likely to tell me to fuck off.” She grins. “Well, more like ‘Asha, would you kindly not interfere in my love life,’ but the sentiment’s the same.”

“Um, yeah,” I murmur distractedly. “Thank you.”

The bulk of my attention is elsewhere, on the words I didn’t say, the words running through my head like a refrain.

Margaery didn’t do anything I didn’t *want* her to.

I wanted to…

I wanted *her*.

I…

‘But I’m not like that,’ whispers a voice in my mind, less certain now. Not attracted to girls. Not the kind of girl who has sex with someone she’s just met. Not the kind of girl who has sex at *all*.

But what if…?

(What if I’ve been wrong all this time? What if this wasn’t just some aberration? What if it wasn’t just an alcohol-induced failure of judgement or morals or character?)

(What if this is who I really am?)

“Sansa?” Asha’s voice breaks through my haze, making me jump, startling me right out of my wool-gathering.

“Sorry!” I yelp, mortified to realise that I must have been staring blankly into space like some kind of daydreaming fool.

“Away with the fairies again?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Thinking,” I say softly. “I, um, have a lot to think about.”

“No shit, Sherlock,” she drawls. “But you can think about it while you work. It’s time we got back.”

She starts to stand up, but I hold out a hand. “Wait!” It’s now or never. “Um…”

“Spit it out, Stark,” she says, impatiently. Weirdly, rather than making me nervous (even more nervous), her familiar brusqueness actually relaxes me a little.

“I’d like to do something nice for Margaery,” I say, all in a rush.

“Seems to me like you already did,” she says, smirking.

I blush furiously.

“No, I mean… I want to do something…” I try to think of a different word, any other word than the one that’s on the tip of my tongue, but I can’t, so I grimace mentally and go ahead. “Something romantic. But I’m not sure what she’d want. So I thought I could maybe ask Loras? Because he’d probably be able to tell me. But… But…”

“But you don’t know how to ask him if you can pick his brains about what floats his sister’s boat,” she states, rather than asks. She’s looking at me oddly, but I don’t know why.

“Um, yes.” I shrug. “I was hoping you could tell me how I should approach him.”

“Pick up the phone and ask him.”

My heart starts racing at the very thought.

“Um!” I temporise frantically.

Asha sighs. “Or send him an e-mail asking if you can have a chat. He’ll agree. He’s too chivalrous not to.”

I can’t tell if she means that as a compliment or a criticism. Maybe both.

“Thanks. And, um, how do I ask him…?” I wave my hand around as if that will somehow provide the clarity my words seem to lack right now.

“Fuck’s sake, Stark! Just ask him. Tell him what you told me. He’s a nice guy; you’re not going to piss him off just by asking a question.” She shakes her head. “I don’t think you’re even capable of pissing him off. You’re just as nice as he is!”

She sounds disgusted by the thought, but I find myself smiling.

“Thanks. I’ll do that. And… thank you for this talk.” Awkward though it was in places. Okay, pretty much all the way through.

“Had to be done,” she says, shrugging. “Don’t thank me for being the bearer of bad tidings.”

I want to disagree, to tell her that it wasn’t all bad news. And she really didn’t *have* to do anything at all. But something tells me that would make her uncomfortable, so I settle for smiling at her as I get to my feet. We start back for Hot Coffee, but before we’ve gone more than a few steps, it’s Asha’s turn to stop me.

“Be careful,” she says, her voice quiet and serious. “It’s… easy to confuse sex and love, especially when you’re young, but Margaery… I’m not sure she’s looking for ‘happy ever after’ right now. If ever. You understand?”

“I… I think so.” It means I’m right! Spending the night with Margaery really *wasn’t* about sex. It was love! True Love! I was just confused. And now I’m not. I smile broadly at Asha, trying to communicate without words just how much she’s clarified things for me.

“Just as long as you don’t get your hopes up too much,” she cautions, still seeming dubious.

“I’m not,” I promise her. “I won’t.”

Honestly, I don’t expect anything from Margaery. I’m happy just to feel this way, to know that True Love exists and that I’ve managed to find it. (It’s certainly so much simpler than the alternative. Than any of the alternatives.) And that’s the important thing. Buoyed by a sudden burst of joie de vivre, I practically skip down the street, leaving Asha a little way behind me.

“Come on, slow coach,” I call back to her, my smile feeling more like a smirk; the expression foreign on my lips. “Old age slowing you down?”

“That a challenge, Stark?”

Asha sounds fiercely amused, and I’m giddy enough to answer: “Maybe!” and take off running.

And even though I hear her shout “Cheating bitch!” as her feet pound the pavement behind me, I can tell that she’s laughing as she says it. I can’t help laughing in response.

It’s not like all my problems have been magically solved, or everything is suddenly perfect, but right now none of that matters.

Because maybe I can’t outrun my troubles. And maybe I can’t just hide under layers and layers of denial any longer. But right now, the only thing I care about is winning this race.

Right now I feel… free.

(And the only thing that could possibly make this moment better is if Daenerys was here to help me celebrate my victory.)


	27. Chapter 27

“So,” Loras begins gravely, looking at me over the rim of his teacup. “You want to talk to me about despoiling my baby sister.”

I choke on my coffee.

“N- no,” I gasp out between hacking coughs. “That’s not- I don’t- I’m sorry, I-“

“It’s alright!” he says, his expression stricken. He sets his cup aside and gets to his feet, then just stands there awkwardly. “Can I help? Do you need some water?” I shake my head, not sure I’d be able to speak even if I wasn’t currently in the process of hacking up a lung. It also feels like my heart has leaped right into my mouth, which definitely isn’t helping with the whole breathing thing. Soon, though, my choking fit subsides.

“I’m fine,” I gasp. I’ll live, I think to myself. At least unless Loras challenges me to a duel in the name of Margaery’s honour. I clear my throat, not having the first clue what I’m going to say (how I can even begin to fix this), but feeling compelled to try anyway. “I…”

Well, that’s a start. Before I can continue, however, Loras puts out a hand to stop me. (I flinch badly, hoping fervently — futilely — that he doesn’t notice.)

(“Oh, you’re sorry, are you? You’re *sorry*?! I’ll *make* you sorry.”)

“That was a joke,” he says softly, looking a little shamefaced. He sits back down in his armchair and picks up his cup once more. “I thought it might break the ice a little; maybe dispel any awkwardness you might be feeling.” Shaking his head, he mutters. “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to Asha.” He pauses a moment, and then gives me a rueful smile. “I’m sorry, Sansa. Do you forgive me?”

It takes me a moment to process what he’s saying. He was joking? He didn’t mean it? And, a heartbeat later: he spoke to *Asha*? I guess she *did* know I was going to contact him. Maybe she asked him if I’d gotten in touch yet? Or maybe he asked her if she knew what I wanted to talk to him about. I wonder if they discussed… me. Us; Margaery and myself. I wonder what they said.

(I wonder if they laughed at me. At my naiveté.)

(No, they wouldn’t. I’m sure they wouldn’t. I am sure.)

“There’s nothing to forgive,” I say slowly, before the silence can stretch too long. I mean, we wouldn’t want this to get awkward, would we? (Huh. Who knew I’d be capable of humour at a time like this? I blame the crowd at Hot Coffee. And the re-enactors. And the LARP crowd. Hmm. Inappropriate humour seems to be a common feature of my current social circles. I wonder what that means…) Suddenly unable to stand it any more, I find myself blurting out: “So, you’re not angry with me?”

“No, of course not,” he says, but not as if the question is entirely unexpected. (Okay, Asha *must* have said something about how worried I am. Was. Am. Or I’m just doing a really bad job of hiding my nervousness. Maybe it’s both.) “Margaery’s love life is none of my business. I don’t have any right to be angry over whom she chooses to spend time with. And, as long as it is her choice, why on earth would I be?”

He sounds so earnest, and he smiles at me reassuringly as he stirs his tea with precise, economical motions.

(Even with my thoughts all a-jumble, I can’t help noticing that he actually sets the tea bag aside for later composting. I think he’s the only person I know who actually composts. Everyone recycles, of course, but Loras and his housemates seem to take it to a whole other level. Idly, I wonder if Margaery shares his dedication to the environment.)

I sip my coffee and try to gather up the tattered shreds of my dignity.

“I guess it does sound silly if you put it like that,” I say sheepishly. (Except I’m pretty sure Rob and Jon would be angry with any young man who ‘despoiled’ *me*, even if it *was* all my own choice.)

(I wonder whether they’d feel the same about it being a young lady…)

(Nope. Nuh uh. No way. That is a conversation we’re *never* going to have. Not if I can possibly help it. If Margaery does come to visit me at home, as far as my family are concerned she’s just a friend. That’s all. Nothing more.)

(God, it’s giving me cold sweats just thinking about it.)

“I wouldn’t say it’s silly,” he demurs, like the gentleman he is. “But you don’t need to worry.” His smile turns wry. “I’m sorry my feeble attempt at humour backfired horribly. Perhaps I should stick to playing straight man to Renly’s jokes in future.”

I can’t help laughing a little at that.

“Well, I am feeling much more relaxed now,” I tell him. “So I wouldn’t mark it down as a complete failure.”

“That’s good to know.” He sips his tea. I sip my coffee. We look at each other. “So,” he says. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh. Um. I was thinking that I’d like to, um, do something nice for Margaery. Like get her a present or something. Nothing big or major or anything like that. Just something… something nice.” I can’t really bring myself to say ‘something romantic’ to her brother, no matter how phlegmatic he seems to be about our spending the night together. “But I’m not exactly sure what kind of thing she might like. So, um, I was hoping that you might be able to, um, tell me? If you don’t mind. If it’s not too much of an imposition or anything.”

I make myself stop talking, taking another drink just to give my mouth something to do. Distantly, I note that this hazelnut coffee is pretty good. Light-tasting. It’s not half as sweet as I was expecting, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes it’s nice to try something different.

(But that leads my mind to places I’m really not comfortable going, especially considering whose brother I’m currently speaking to. And what led me here in the first place. So let’s just stop that right now before I start blushing again.)

(Okay, any more.)

“It’s not an imposition.” He shrugs gracefully, giving me a thoughtful look. “I’m not sure how much help I’ll be, but I can certainly try. One thing first, though.” And now he seems almost… cautious? (I tense instinctively, then make myself relax.) “Feel free to take this with a pinch of salt, because — as I said — Margaery’s private life is her own business, but it might be best not to build up… expectations.” He sighs softly. “I love my sister dearly, but serious commitment does not seem to be her strong suit. Maybe that will change — maybe it *has* changed, for all I know — but I don’t want you to end up getting hurt.”

“Oh no,” I hasten to reassure him. “I don’t expect… anything. Really. I just want to do something nice.”

He scrutinises me for a moment before replying, and I wonder if he’s going to ask something else, to try to make sure I’m not going to turn into some sort of creepy, clinging obsessive stalker like something out of one of those daytime soaps.

(I am *definitely* keeping the whole True Love thing to myself. Not that it was ever in doubt, but… I really don’t want Loras — or anyone else — to get the wrong idea. No. It will just have to stay between myself and Margaery. Or maybe just within the privacy of my head and heart. At least for the moment. It’s just… People *will* get the wrong idea, and I don’t want them to think that I’m just some silly, confused little girl with my head in the clouds. Or that it’s all about… physical stuff. Because it isn’t. It’s… purer than that. Higher, even.)

(And it doesn’t have anything at all to do with ‘expectations’.)

“Alright, then,” he says eventually. “Let me see…”

I lean forward eagerly, and he tells me what he knows. Yes, this will definitely help. I should be able to come up with something a little more interesting than flowers. (Not that there’s anything wrong with flowers. I’d be over the moon if someone I liked gave some to me. It’s just that, after my talk with Daenerys, I think I’d kind of like to do something a little… different.)

Part-way through, inspiration strikes.

Yes!

I’ll need to do some research, of course, but I should have plenty of time, especially once I’m back at Winterfell. I can even dig out my old sewing chest! The proper one; not the little portable kit I brought with me to Nottingham.

This is going to be… I hesitate before thinking the word, not wanting to jinx anything. (What if she hates it? What if it all goes horribly wrong?) But, oh; what the heck.

It’s going to be *perfect*!

I can’t wait to get started.

 

* * * * *

 

I feel a little flutter of something in the pit of my stomach when I press Daenerys’ doorbell. It’s not quite nervousness, not quite anticipation, not quite anything so easy to identify. But it’s there, and it’s making me feel like the world is ever-so-slightly off-kilter.

Maybe it’s because I haven’t seen her since I went round to her house on Monday evening. I suppose I technically saw her yesterday morning (quite a lot of her, my memory inappropriately insists on reminding me), but I think I’m counting that as part of Monday’s general… thing. The thing is… She never did stop by Hot Coffee yesterday. I mean, I know she doesn’t come by *every* day, and I know we’ve gone longer than this without seeing each other before, but… I don’t know. I guess a part of me is still worried that, now she’s had time to think everything through, she doesn’t want to be friends with me after all.

If she hadn’t specifically texted me this morning to ask about snack requests, I wouldn’t be sure that our movie marathon was even still on.

But she did, and it is, and I’m just being silly. Honestly! Friends don’t have to see each other every day. Not even close friends. Not even *best* friends.

Oh! I think I hear something.

Daenerys is wearing that blue dress again; the one that swirls around her like the ocean (and clings to her like a lover). I can’t help casting it an admiring glance or two. The needlework on the edging really is nice.

And then I see her face.

“What’s wrong?” The words just burst out of me, even though I haven’t so much as said hello. Still, I think a little brusqueness may be justified here. She looks… Honestly, she looks terrible. Pale beneath her tan. Dark circles under reddened eyes.

Eyes that won’t meet mine, her gaze dancing skittishly away in a manner that’s completely unlike her.

“Hello to you too,” she says sardonically. But while I do feel a twinge of embarrassment at my lack of manners, concern for my friend far outweighs that. (I don’t think I even blush at all this time!) I start to ask again what the matter is, but she dismisses the question with an airy wave of her hand. “Nothing’s wrong. A bit of a cold, perhaps.” She smiles, but it has none of her usual lustre. “Maybe I’m coming down with the same thing you were.”

“But-“

“Let’s not stand out here on the doorstep, shall we? Especially if we’re both feeling under the weather.”

Frowning, I follow her inside and hang up my outdoor things. This conversation may be temporarily paused, but it most certainly is not over. I’m now even more convinced that something’s wrong, maybe even something serious. A barrage of questions bubble up in throat, but I hold my tongue for the moment, deciding to borrow Shae’s trick of waiting someone out.

“Did you manage to get your errands finished?”

“Yes, thank you.” Talking to Loras counts as an errand, doesn’t it? I think so. I hope she doesn’t ask for details, because the thought of talking about it with her makes me feel… uncomfortable. Even though she’s the one who suggested it in the first place. It’s probably silly of me, but I can’t bring myself to care right now. Why *shouldn’t* I try to avoid a potential minefield? It’s not like I’m *lying*. (Even though I feel as guilty as if I was.) I’m just… not volunteering the whole story.

Anyway, there’s something else we need to discuss right now. Bringing up the subject of Margaery will only distract us from the matter at hand.

(Margaery certainly can be distracting.)

“I’ve set the snacks out on the table already. Why don’t you settle in and make yourself comfortable while I see to drinks.” It sounds like a question, but she’s already making a beeline for the kitchen.

Yes, Daenerys would definitely seize on *any* opportunity to escape the questions I have for her. So I definitely shouldn’t volunteer details about the true nature of my little ‘errand’.

I stow my bags out of the way and join Daenerys in the kitchen. She starts a little when she sees me, opening her mouth to say something — probably to repeat that I should make myself comfortable — but I speak first.

“Why don’t we make the drinks together?”

She frowns, and I half-think she’s going to argue with me, but then she sighs.

“If you like,” she says, and she doesn’t sound grudging, exactly, but she doesn’t sound precisely happy about it either.

I cringe a little inside (I really don’t want to intrude where I’m not welcome), but I push the feeling down and get to work. Fortunately, I already know my way around Daenerys’ kitchen. It’s not a bad size — not huge, but big enough that we’re not tripping over each other every time we turn around. And it’s much less awkwardly shaped than the kitchen in my house, which is a ridiculous corridor of a room that feels like it was tacked on as an afterthought. But, somehow, despite all that, we still manage to keep getting in each other’s way. After one near-miss too many we stop, look at each other, and then suddenly start laughing.

“This is ridiculous,” Daenerys says, shaking her head.

“It is, rather,” I agree. I smile at her. “Look, why don’t I do this? I’m practically taking over anyway.” I rub my nose sheepishly. “Force of habit, I’m afraid.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Feel free to keep me company if you like,” I say. “Or relax on the sofa and let me serve you. I don’t mind.”

“Such a gracious host,” she murmurs, her tone heavy with irony.

“Sorry,” I say, blushing a little. “I guess I really am in barista mode.”

“I don’t mind.” The sparkle in her eyes is back, even if at a lower wattage than usual. She still looks tired and drawn, though. Maybe she really is coming down with something. But she interrupts my (hopefully surreptitious) study of her by adding. “I like seeing you like this.” Her slight smile turns sly. “You remind me of Nymeria’s very good friend Alanna.”

“Oh, um. Thank you?”

“And now I’ve confused you,” she sighs, sounding almost… sad.

“No, not at all.” Well, maybe that’s not *quite* right, but reassuring her takes precedence to the technicalities of what’s true and what’s not. “I’m just not good at accepting compliments.” I make myself smile, even though my face is trying to crumple into a worried frown. “You know that.”

“I suppose I do,” she says, her voice distant and her eyes suddenly full of unexplained shadows. She takes a deep breath, seeming to rally her spirits a little so that she sounds almost like her usual self as she adds: “I’m glad you took that as a compliment. I meant it as one.” I have to turn my attention to the stove then, to make sure I take the milk off the heat at exactly the right moment, so I almost miss the words she practically whispers. “I don’t just open my mouth to criticise or give orders.”

What?

“What?”

Turning off the stove — a little too early but this is more important than crafting a perfect cinnamon-hazelnut-double-shot-mocha-latte — I whip around to face her, crossing the kitchen in a couple of steps until I’m standing right in front of her. (I guess having longer than average legs can come in handy sometimes.) This close, my earlier impression is only reinforced: she looks terrible.

(I mean, she’s still beautiful, of course. Not even the bags and the wan complexion and the red eyes can take that away from her. But still…)

I don’t *think* she’s been crying, at least not just before I arrived, but if this is all just down to feeling under the weather, I’ll eat my hat. (Yes, even my fuzzy wolf hat! Well, okay, maybe not *that* one. But one of my hats.) Not that I think that will be necessary, because she’s clearly upset about *something* and trying to put a brave face. And I’m not willing to let that pass without doing my best to help her.

“Nothing,” she says, shrugging jerkily. “I was just mumbling to myself.” She nods towards the stove. “Didn’t you say this was the critical stage in creating the right consistency of froth?”

“Fiddlesticks to the froth!” I exclaim. “I’m worried about you.”

“Such salty language,” she says softly, laughing a little. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up swearing like a sailor.”

“If you don’t *talk* to me, maybe I will,” I fire back without really thinking about it, then reel inside, shocked at myself. What wickedness has possessed my tongue? Where is this even *coming* from? (Is it Alanna deciding to step up because timid little Sansa might just wilt?) No, it doesn’t matter. Not if it gets the job done. I can worry about my possibly fractured psyche later. Now, I only have worry enough for Daenerys. (Anyway: Alanna or Sansa or whoever; it’s all me in the end.)

She looks at me, her expression conflicted.

“It’s nothing,” she starts to say.

“Piffle and, further, poppycock. Something is obviously wrong, and if you try to tell me again that you’re just coming down with a cold, I’m going to call shenanigans.”

She leans back against the washing machine, staring at me like she’s never seen me before.

“When did you become so fierce?” she asks, her voice a strange mixture of amusement and wonder.

“Since I started hanging around with a bunch of…” ‘Boss-ass bitches,’ I hear in Ygritte’s dulcet tones. “Fierce women,” I say, instead, and smile. “I hear that dragons can be a terribly bad influence on impressionable young ladies.”

“They do say dragons have a fondness for fair maidens,” she murmurs, and then twitches a little, her expression turning strange. “Sorry,” she adds.

“That’s alright,” I reply automatically, not having the foggiest idea what she’s apologising for. (Or why I’m blushing like a bonfire all of a sudden.) “But, more importantly,” I say, trying to pick up the thread of this conversation once more. “When my friends are feeling down, I want to try to help them. You can’t blame me for being a little fierce under those circumstances. It’s not like you’d be any different.”

“You’ve… got me there,” she admits.

“I know,” I say dryly. “So, will you tell me what’s wrong, or do I have to pester you about it some more?”

She’s silent for a few moments, seemingly lost in thought. I’m just starting to consider lightly pressing her for a response when she finally speaks.

“Alright. But let’s finish the drinks first.” She sighs heavily. “If you expect me to be at all coherent, I’m going to need that sugar and caffeine.”

“Expect is possibly a strong word,” I murmur, still half in awe at this new, fierce Sansa. Daenerys stares at me with her eyebrows raised, as if she also can’t quite believe that these words are coming out of my mouth.

“Love seems to agree with you,” she says, her expression suddenly unreadable.

“I, um, I suppose so.” Uneasy with this particular conversational detour, I make a point of bustling about trying to salvage the drinks. I think it works. At any rate, she drops the subject and starts tidying up around me. With the two of us working busily — and silently — it doesn’t take long. (The froth is never going to win any prizes, but at least the drinks taste good. My honour as a barista remains intact.) It seems like we’ve managed to find our rhythm again.

I wait until we’re both ensconced on the sofa with our drinks before looking over at Daenerys expectantly.

“So, are you ready to talk about it now?”

Her immediate response is to practically down her coffee, taking such a large gulp that I can’t help wondering how she has any taste buds left at all. She must have an iron tongue or something. (Um… No, not going there.) When she’s done, she sighs softly and turns to me.

“I suppose so. Not that there’s really much to talk about.” She sighs again, shrugging. “I’ve just had a bad couple of days.”

“So, tell me about them.”

I twist around a little on the sofa so I can look at her properly, keeping my expression and body language open and inviting. In short, doing my best to seem like someone she can confide in, who can take care of her if she needs it. (Rather than someone who always needs to be taken care of.)

“It’s just… Lots of deadlines. A group project for which I’m the only one who actually seems to do any of the work. A confrontation with a jobsworth in the council offices over the Radford Lights project. My brother being his usual *charming* self.” She sighs. “And I ran into Doreah yesterday. That got a little… ugly.”

“Oh,” I say, sympathetically. “That does sound pretty bad.”

But I still can’t shake the feeling that there’s something else, something beyond all that. Something deeper…

She sighs again, picking at a loose bit of thread in the cuff of one sleeve. I forcibly squash the urge to tell her she should leave it alone before she makes it worse. (Maybe I could offer to fix it for her, if she wants… Afterwards, maybe. If I don’t lose my nerve.)

“This time of year is hard for me,” she says quietly, not really looking at me. I catch her shooting me quick, sidelong glances, but her attention is ostensibly focused on her hands. On the cup she’s clutching tightly by the handle. That darn loose thread she can’t seem to stop fiddling with. (Maybe I will say something. But not until she’s answered my question.) “Christmas was never my favourite time, for various reasons. But then I… I lost someone, and now it’s… even harder.”

I wait for her to go on, but she just takes another drink — more of a sip than a gulp this time — and continues to worry at that loose thread. A shared grief wells up inside me, a strange kind of kinship of loss. I know I never feel my father’s absence more keenly than when I’m with the rest of my family, more so when the occasion is supposed to be one of celebration.

Words seem hopelessly inadequate for expressing how I feel right now, so I reach out and cover her hand with mine in a wordless show of support. Her head snaps up, her gaze colliding with mine, such raw emotion in her eyes that it’s like being struck by lightning. The force of it makes me reel inside. I’ve never seen her so vulnerable, so exposed. It feels almost… wrong. But the sight stirs something in me, makes me want to protect her; to take the pain away.

I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to hold her in my arms.

I shift a little, open my mouth to speak — although I have no earthly idea what I’m going to say — but she derails my train of thought by turning her hand over in mine and gripping tightly. Like she’s the one in need of a lifeline this time.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and even though her gaze is still an open wound, she manages to conjure up a smile for me. (Maybe there really is magic in this world after all.) “I don’t… This isn’t usually something I talk about. Not ever.”

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” I say, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the strange, fragile stillness that seems to have settled over the pair of us. “But if you want to talk — if you *need* to talk — you can talk to me. I’m here for you.”

She falls into silence again, but I don’t push. I don’t want to make her lock this all away again; to close herself off. Not when she’s just starting to open up.

“I don’t deserve you,” she says eventually, but her voice isn’t that of someone feeling grateful for a friend. It’s like the words are being torn from her throat in pieces, rough edges scraping against raw, tender flesh. It’s like she really believes… “I don’t deserve you as a friend.”

“Why would you say that?” I whisper, staring at her in bewilderment.

My heart twists painfully in my chest. I don’t *like* this. I don’t like seeing her like this. She’s supposed to be strong and confident; perfectly in control. Poised and regal as a queen. The one thing she’s never, ever, *ever* supposed to do is doubt herself like this. (*She’s* not supposed to doubt herself.) What can possibly have happened to cause such a drastic change in her?

(Could it be something to do with me? With what I told her about Margaery?)

(No, of course not. It’s obviously just a coincidence of timing.)

“Don’t you remember what I told you?” Her face is shuttered again, but imperfectly, pain and sorrow leaking through the cracks. Her voice is dry, but there’s a strange, thick quality to it, like someone on the verge of tears. “I don’t have many friends. And I seem to have trouble keeping the ones I’ve got.

For the first time since I got here, I start to wonder just how helpful I’m actually being; how helpful I *can* be. Isn’t this a little beyond my meagre abilities? Wouldn’t it be better to let her change the subject, to encourage her to instead talk about this with someone who knows what they’re doing? Maybe one of her other friends, someone who’s known her longer. Missandei. Daario. Barristan. Jorah. Wouldn’t one of those be better, more capable at talking her through this crisis of confidence than me?

But…

But she said she doesn’t talk about this. Which means she doesn’t talk about it with any of *them*. And she is talking to me right now…

Anyway, I *said* I’d help her. I said she could talk to me. I said I’m here for her, and I am. I’m not going to go back on my word. I *want* to help her. I want to be there for her. Like she was there for me on Monday night.

So I meet her gaze and smile.

“You have me,” I say, trying to fill the words with as much conviction as I can. All the conviction I feel right now. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

It sounds like a promise. It sounds like a truth. It sounds like an oath Alanna Stone might swear in blood and fire and spirit to seal some sorcerous pact.

And I mean it with all of my heart.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Non-explicit reference to past dubious (at best) consent

Daenerys stares at me like she’s never seen me before.

“You mean that, don’t you?” she says, and her voice is a many-layered thing I can’t even begin to analyse.

“Of course I do,” I reply. I shrug. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it.” Certain memories remind me that she has reason not to take that at face value, so I hurriedly add: “Not even to be polite. Not about something like this.”

It’s too important, I think to myself, but a sudden wave of self-consciousness overwhelms me, preventing me from speaking the words aloud.

(God, it’s not like I’m declaring my undying love or anything. I hope she doesn’t think I’m being too over-the-top. Too intense. Too… Just too much.)

But the way she smiles at me now…

(No, I don’t think she thinks it’s too much at all.)

Thankfully, she seems to understand what I mean.

“Thank you,” she says. “I really do appreciate that.”

She looks down at our hands; still tangled together, the skin of her palm warm against mine. (Her hands are always warm. Mine seem to naturally tend towards a little on the cold side. I wonder if that means anything.) I wonder if I should let go.

“You’re welcome,” I say.

She lifts her mug to her lips, suddenly reminding me of my own drink. We sip together in companionable silence. Well, I sip. She finishes off the rest of hers and sets the mug aside, turning a little to face me. Her hand shifts in mine, her fingers flexing a little. Worried that might be a sign, I immediately release my grip. (I just as quickly regret it, but it’s too late now. I can’t just reach out and hold her hand; not apropos of nothing.)

Daenerys folds her hands in her lap, then unfolds them again and smooths down the skirt of her dress. She crosses her arms, then uncrosses them, then picks at that loose thread once more. I wrap my own hands tightly around my mug to stop myself reaching out for her, to stop myself physically stilling her restlessness by wrapping her tightly in my arms.

“I can fix that for you.” The words burst out of me — against my better judgement; without my intending to say them aloud just yet — and her head snaps towards me, confusion in her eyes. “That loose thread,” I clarify, nodding towards her cuff. “I can stop it from unravelling further, if I come back with my sewing kit. Or if I can borrow yours.”

She drops the loose thread and folds her hands in her lap again, twining her fingers together as if to ensure that they remain there this time.

“Maybe sometime later?” she says, a little distractedly, and then adds, as if it’s an afterthought: “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I say again, automatically. I try my best to give her an encouraging look. She glances away.

“It’s difficult to know where to start,” she murmurs.

“Maybe at the beginning?” I hazard.

She stiffens, making me wonder what I’ve said wrong, but then she relaxes again with a sigh. To my surprise, she draws her legs up onto the sofa and folds herself around them, the hunched position making her seem younger, smaller, more fragile. I’m reminded, all of a sudden, that she’s not that much older than I am. Not really. Not in the grand scheme of things.

“The beginning…” she repeats, her eyes distant and hooded. “Alright.” She nods sharply, seeming to recover a little of her usual decisiveness. “The beginning it is.” A wry smile briefly curves her lips, and she lifts her eyes to mine. “I hope you have some time to spare.”

“Take all the time you need,” I assure her. I guess this means our movie marathon is off, but I don’t mind. I do have a shift this evening, but until then… I’m all hers.

She takes a deep breath. I arrange myself as comfortably as I can on the sofa, settling in for the long haul. Anticipation thrums through me.

(Is it wrong to feel curious? To look forward to finding out more about Daenerys and her mysterious past? Is it wrong to feel anticipation when I should be feeling nothing but concern for my friend? Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s just part of being human. Either way, I push it aside and focus all my attention on her.)

“My parents died when I was four,” she says, and her voice is calm and even, with a story-teller’s cadence. It’s like she’s describing something that happened to someone else. Or that didn’t happen at all. Like she’s just reciting a fairy-tale. “Our car got caught in a slipstream and started fishtailing. The road was wet. My father lost control of the car, and we went off the edge of the road. My brother and I survived. My parents didn’t.”

Horror rises up inside me as she talks. She said her parents died in a car accident, but I didn’t realise that she was in the car at the time. I know she was young, but still. That must have been *terrifying*. Yet her voice doesn’t once waver from its level tone, and the only expression on her face is the faint frown that only barely wrinkles her brow. Her eyes, though, look almost glassy, like they’re focused somewhere far, far away. I don’t know what she’s seeing right now, but I don’t think it’s me. I don’t think it’s this room. Keeping my movements slow and careful, I inch a little closer to her on the sofa. Just in case.

“I don’t really remember my parents,” she continues. “Just flashes here and there. My mother’s voice singing a lullaby; my father swinging me up onto his shoulders. Little bits and pieces like that. I don’t remember the crash at all.”

I suppose that explains her distance, her unruffled recitation of the facts.

I can’t even imagine what that must be like; barely even knowing her parents at all. I think I’m going to miss my father for the rest of my life, but at least I knew him. At least I have all those happy memories to look back on. At least I *remember* him loving me.

“We were driving back from our Christmas holidays,” she says, abruptly, surfacing from her memories to give me a rather sickly smile. “It’s why I’ve never… Christmas was always a sombre time after that.”

“I can imagine,” I say softly.

It’s why spring is bittersweet for me. Instead of thinking of all the new life it brings, I remember my father, dying. As colour returns to a world of winter greys and browns, I see again the blue seeping into his lips; the waxen pallor of his cheeks. The sound of birdsong will forever remind me of the silence where his pulse should have been. Of the breath I tried to give him. Of trying so hard to remember what I learned in my first aid classes, and in the end just *screaming* at him to just wake up. Of promising — swearing on my very soul — that I’d be the most perfect daughter he could ever possibly wish for, if only he would wake up.

If he would please just wake up.

No, spring is not my favourite time of year. So I understand all too well what she means.

“That’s right, your father,” she says, just as quietly, and now her gaze is so intent, so focused, that it’s like nothing else exists but me. “So you know what it’s like.”

“I do.”

We share a moment of silence; mourning or understanding or both. Somehow, when it passes, her feet are pressed against my thigh, my arm brushing against her shins as I bring my coffee cup to my lips. Neither of us says a thing about our proximity.

“It took a while to sort out custody,” she says, picking up the thread of her tale. “Mum was Anglo-French, and her parents lived in England. Dad’s parents were both Algerian, but they lived in France. Viserys and I have triple nationality. Kind of. Depending on which authorities you’re talking to. It’s a little fuzzy even now, but back then it was a bureaucratic nightmare. So, until permanent arrangements could be made, we bounced around between both sets of grandparents, an aunt, even some cousins. It was hard. It was… We felt like so much flotsam and jetsam, tossed from pillar to post without any idea where, or even if, we’d eventually come to rest. The only constant my brother and I had — the only fixed point in all this chaos — was each other.”

She shifts a little, restlessly, the sudden movement almost startling after her previous stillness. She looks me, but doesn’t quite meet my eyes. It’s like she’s not quite here, like she’s half-stuck in the past, where I can’t follow. That doesn’t mean I won’t try, though. Pushing self-consciousness aside (surely if I can do that for anyone, I can do that for her), I peel one hand away from my mug and let it drift a little, resting my arm on the cushion so that my fingertips lightly brush the back of her hand. Not gripping, not covering her hand with mine; just there. Just in case.

(I blush a little at my own daring, but try to push my discomfort aside. It’s not anything I haven’t done before; it’s just one friend offering comfort to another. We’re already practically resting against each other, and that didn’t really bother me.)

(Okay, maybe it did, a little. Well, not ‘bother,’ but make me feel strange and slightly flushed.)

(This, though… Offering my hand to her like this… It feels almost… intimate.)

(My flush deepens, and I’m beyond thankful that Daenerys is too far away to notice. But this is not the time and the place for such thoughts, such distractions. This is about her. So I push away all extraneous thoughts and concentrate on listening to her story.)

(It isn’t the time or place for anything else.)

“Viserys is two years older than me. In the aftermath of the accident… He had to grow up fast. He looked after me, protected me, cared for me and I… I practically worshipped him for it. I think we got on well enough before — well, about as well as a four year old girl and her six year old brother *can* get on, which isn’t to say we didn’t have our fights — but afterwards, we were inseparable. For a while, I wouldn’t even speak to anyone but Viserys, so he got into the habit of speaking for me. It was a habit that continued as we got older.”

She sighs softly, an almost-smile just touching her lips.

“After a couple of months of being rootless, the mess was finally sorted out and we went to live with our mother’s parents in England. But though they were granted custody, they didn’t want to deprive us of our other family, or deprive them of us. So they came to an arrangement with our father’s parents that we would spend the summers in France, with them. It was… a good time. I mean, obviously we still missed our parents — and our grandparents were mourning their children — but we were loved. We were cared for. I was still timid, still barely speaking to anyone who wasn’t Viserys, but I was happy. At least, I was starting to be happy. But Viserys… wasn’t.”

The frown is back and deeper now, painting her face with sorrow.

“It happened gradually — so gradually I didn’t really notice at first — but he became cold. Distant. And then he turned mean. Everything I did was wrong. Everything about me was irritating, or ugly, or stupid. *I* was stupid. And helpless, and pathetic. And utterly dependent on him.”

I hear an echo in my head; almost those exact same words, spoken in *his* voice. I have to swallow past the lump in my throat, like all the sobs I ever choked back have congealed into some kind of bolus of misery.

It just about breaks my heart to think of Daenerys going through that too.

(But I never would have guessed it to look at her. Not even when she told me she used to be meek. Maybe that means there is hope for me after all. Maybe I’ll eventually be able to step all the way out of the shadow he cast.)

(Even if it does sometimes seem like it goes on forever.)

“The thing of it is, I still looked up to him; still practically worshipped the ground he walked on. It didn’t matter how badly he treated me. I just thought that was the price I had to pay for having him as my protector.”

Her lips twist on the last word, turning it dark and ugly and bitter. She pauses for a breath or two before continuing.

“I’m not saying it was all terrible,” she says softly. “Our grandparents — both sets of them — fought so hard to keep us. And they cared for us so much. Truth to tell, they probably spoiled us rotten. But I always knew I was loved. It’s just that…” A soft sigh escapes her lips. “It always felt like there was a line. Viserys and I were on one side of it, and the whole rest of the world was on the other. And no matter how bad it got on our side of the line, no matter how unhealthy our relationship became, I never once thought about trying to step over that boundary. I never even considered trying to leave him.”

Her eyes focus on me suddenly, the unexpectedness of that razor-sharp attention making me blink. The smile she gives me could scratch diamond.

“I sound like a battered wife, don’t I?” she says, and I don’t know how to respond to that so I just give a tiny nod and sip my cooling coffee.

(She… She sounds like… like *me*. Not the precise words, perhaps, but that feeling of being cut off from the rest of the world, of being isolated, of being absolutely convinced that no matter what he said, or did, I must have done something to deserve it. Of relying on *him* for all my social interactions.)

(Of feeling so terribly, terribly alone.)

“Anyway, time passed — as it is wont to do — and the two of us grew into teenagers. I was fifteen and he was seventeen. I was still a timid little scrap of a thing, but he’d become rather… gregarious. And something of a rebel. He’d taken to hanging around with gang members and criminals, even committing a few petty acts of larceny and vandalism himself.” She twists her lips in distaste. “Sometimes pressing me into service as lookout. Or distraction. Or, when things went wrong — which they sometimes did — a scapegoat.”

Daenerys? Daenerys the lawyer-in-training? A *criminal*?

Try as I might, I just can’t picture it. Not *this* Daenerys; this fearless woman, this crusader for righteous causes. But… a Daenerys who was timid? Who stood in the shadow of the brother she adored? I guess I can imagine *that* person letting herself be pushed into something like that.

Not that I can really picture that Daenerys.

(I suppose I should be thankful that *he* was never inclined towards committing criminal acts. I’m not sure underage drinking really counts.)

“So Viserys decided he wanted to join a motorcycle gang.”

To my surprise, she actually smiles, then. Just a small smile, but it seems genuine; untainted by bitterness. Maybe even… fond? But it’s there and gone again only very briefly, and I can’t help doubting what I saw as her expression turns shuttered and distant once more.

(I wish I could follow her when she retreats like this. I wish I could walk by her side as she makes her way through the shadows of nightmares past. I wish I could take her hand and wipe the pain away.)

(I wish, I wish, I wish…)

“Naturally, he picked the toughest, fiercest, most feared gang in the city; maybe even in all of France.” That surprises me. I guess I assumed… But she did say the two of them spent summers with their paternal grandparents. “Actually, that’s probably an exaggeration. But they definitely had quite the reputation in Paris. They called themselves…” She says a word I can’t quite catch, never mind attempt to pronounce. It certainly doesn’t sound French. I guess it must be… Berber? “The closest translation is probably something like ‘The Bloodriders’.”

Well, that sounds… charming. Although, I suppose a motorcycle gang — especially a fearsome one — was hardly going to be called ‘Hugs and Puppies’, was it?

“Their leader at the time was… He was called Drogo. Moroccan-French. And he was about the same age as Viserys.”

There’s that ‘was’ again. I start putting two and two together, coming up with what I think is something in the vicinity of four.

“Isn’t that a little young to be leading a motorcycle gang?” I can’t help asking, then immediately wish I could take the words back. I didn’t mean to interrupt Daenerys’ story, and I certainly don’t want to make her feel self-conscious.

(Like I would be, if I were telling someone about my sordid past. Not that I really have a sordid past, as such. Or that this is, really. I just like the sound of the phrase.)

Daenerys looks at me like she’s almost surprised to see me sitting here next to her. I fight the urge to apologise, then immediately second-guess myself. Maybe I should apologise for the interruption… But before I can so much as draw breath to speak, she answers my question.

“Yes, it is,” she says softly. “It certainly surprised me when I found out. Most of the Bloodriders’ members at the time were aged between mid-teens and mid-twenties. I would’ve expected one of the older ones to be the leader. But Drogo…” She smiles sadly. “He was a remarkable man. A remarkable leader.”

Was. Was. *Was.*

I know where this is going, the tragedy to come looming up ahead like some fairytale troll. It sits there, gnarled and ugly, its shadow dark and deep. A love lost forever. (Her sun and stars.) Mixed feelings of sadness and anticipation well up inside me at the thought of it. (And some other emotion; an acrid, caustic thing that seems to slice at my heart with needle-sharp claws. Something I don’t recognise. Something I don’t understand, or want to.) I push the confusion to one side, or try to, ready to offer her whatever support she needs.

“He actually didn’t think much of Viserys,” Daenerys muses. “Much to my brother’s disgust. But he was determined. And he had an ace up his sleeve. You see, Drogo may not have cared much for Viserys, but he seemed to have developed a certain… regard… for me.”

Wait. Does she…? Could she mean…?

She watches my expression, my feelings clearly written loud and clear across my face. I don’t think I could keep them hidden if I tried. (Certainly not from her.) When she nods, the smile she gives me is more like a snarl.

“Viserys arranged a date between me and Drogo. Drogo agreed to give him his shot at joining the Bloodriders.” She shrugs stiffly. “Quite a straightforward transaction, really.”

“You agreed to that?” I whisper, and then want to kick myself for asking such a gosh-darned *stupid* question.

“Weren’t you listening earlier?” she replies dryly. “It never even occurred to me to refuse.”

Of course it didn’t. Of course it wouldn’t. I should know that better than anyone. I just… I’m having trouble taking all of this in. There’s so much I want to say, but the words gather thickly in my throat, choking me into silence. So instead, I talk to her without words. I let my hand settle over hers, showing her that I’m here for her. That I’m not judging her for the actions — or inactions — of her younger self.

Heaven knows I certainly have no moral high ground to stand on in this regard. (And my failures aren’t nearly so far behind me.)

Her hand tenses sharply against mine for a moment, and then relaxes. She doesn’t return my grip, but neither does she pull away. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realised I was holding. (If she’s willing to accept the meagre comfort I can offer, I can’t have offended or upset her too badly with my ill-chosen words.)

The silence gathers around us for what feels like a long time. I finish the remainder of my now-tepid coffee, but then realise that I can’t reach to set it down safely on a table, or even on the floor. Not without letting go of Daenerys’ hand. That isn’t going to happen, so I make do with balancing the empty mug carefully — very carefully — on the cushion next to me. It should be safe there. (I hope.)

Eventually, Daenerys sighs softly and shakes her head.

“Drogo was so different to what I was expecting. Not that I really…” Her shrug looks more like a flinch. “I was too terrified at the thought of being alone with this fearsome gang leader to think about what kind of person he might be. I’d never really spoken to him before, so the only thing I knew about him was his reputation.” She pauses briefly, then adds, as an aside: “And that he had a strange name.”

I almost choke at the thought of *Daenerys* — with a brother called Viserys, no less — thinking of someone else’s name as strange. But then, I suppose I don’t have much of a leg to stand on in that regard. ‘Sansa’ isn’t exactly common these days.

“It is a strange name,” I observe neutrally.

“Old French, apparently,” she says. “Courtesy of a proud French father. But I digress.” She takes a moment, visibly gathering herself. “He took me out on his bike,” she says. “It was…. terrifying, at least at first, but it was also *exhilarating*. We can’t have been going that fast, not really, but it felt like I was flying.” Her voice drops to a whisper, the expression on her face something like awe as she says: “I’d never felt so free in all my life. For a moment, I wished it would never stop. But it did.”

Her eyes turn cloudy and she seems to curl even more tightly around herself. I feel her hand tense in my loose grip.

“Our first date was… not precisely one for the ages. No one would be writing any sonnets about the romance of it, or singing ridiculous songs about love at first sight.”

“But I thought…”

I stare at her, surprised and confused. This wasn’t how I expected the story to go. This wasn’t what I expected at all. I thought it would be… I thought she’d tell me he was sweet, or funny, or charming; that her impression of him was all wrong. That something just… clicked.

(I thought he was her one true love.)

She doesn’t even seem to hear my words. If it wasn’t for the way her hand suddenly grips mine almost hard enough to hurt, I’d be starting to wonder if she’s somehow forgotten that I’m here with her.

“Viserys…” Her voice cracks on the name. She clears her throat and tries again. “It seems my *darling* brother had told him that his ‘regard’ was reciprocated. That I wanted him, but was far too shy to do anything about it. That his advances would be welcomed with open arms, even if I seemed… coy.” Her face twists in a grimace. “No, I think I can safely say that date is not one of my most cherished memories. Except for maybe the bike ride.”

I feel my eyes fill with tears, but I make no attempt to brush them away. I have to swallow hard before I can speak. When I do, my voice sounds thick with emotion.

“You mean he…?” I can’t even say it; can’t finish the sentence that my mind, with rising horror, is already filling in.

“He fucked me, yes,” she says, and I flinch back from her words, from the jagged edges of her voice, from the horrified thoughts forming in my mind.

“Oh, Daenerys…” For a few moments, I concentrate on just breathing, on being able to speak without choking, but when I try to continue, she interrupts me.

“It wasn’t… I mean, he didn’t realise it wasn’t reciprocated. He thought I… He thought…”

“He should have realised,” I say, and the coldness of my voice comes as a shock to me. “He should have made sure you were alright.” I’m almost unsettled by the strength of the emotions welling up inside me, by the sheer depth of the… the (utter, unabashed hatred) *dislike* I feel for this dead man (boy?). The part of me that always tries to see the best in others, to justify, to apologise (even for *him*), remains conspicuously silent. He hurt my- He hurt *Daenerys*, and that I can’t forgive. “He should have realised,” I say, again.

“It’s more complicated than that,” she says, and I’m torn by the distress on her face, ashamed to realise that I’ve played a part in putting it there. If I’d let her gloss over the whole ugly business and then move on… If I’d stayed silent… But, rarely, I find myself compelled to speak up.

“Maybe it is,” I allow, although it grates to even concede that much. “But that doesn’t mean it was *right*. It doesn’t mean *he* was right.” And it certainly doesn’t mean I have to stand by and see her tie herself up in knots over a creep who’d have sex with a girl he wasn’t sure was willing.

She doesn’t speak for what feels like an age. It’s long enough that I start to worry I’ve offended her, long enough that ordinarily I’d fear I’ve said the wrong thing, put my foot in it somehow. And yet, I’m not actually worried about the latter at all. What I said… needed to be said. And I’m not sorry I said it.

(I just hope she isn’t offended.)

“I’m not saying it was right,” she says, speaking so quietly that I have to lean in close to try to make out the words. “And, truthfully, I regret it. I regret not saying no. I regret being too afraid to say no. I regret that my first time was with someone I didn’t choose; a man I didn’t know well enough to know whether or not I even *liked* him. I regret that it was on a ratty mattress in a dingy little squat. I regret that it wasn’t special and magical and romantic and wonderful. But all the regrets in the world aren’t going to change one single thing. It was what it was.” She sighs heavily, her breath lightly tickling the back of my neck. “Anyway,” she continues, in a more normal speaking voice, albeit with an edge of bitter humour. “You have to understand — back then, I was *very* good at being all things to all people. Quite the little social chameleon, if I do say so myself. Viserys expected obedience. Drogo expected shy infatuation. So they both got exactly what they wanted.”

For a precarious moment, I think I might actually start crying. Then the moment passes, and instead I fear I might fly into an uncontrollable rage. (Me! A rage!) I wonder if this so-called brother of hers is likely to show his face in Nottingham any time soon… But then the anger also passes, leaving behind a deep, aching sorrow.

“So, Viserys joined the Bloodriders?” I ask. It’s not even close to what I want to say, but I don’t think Daenerys wants sympathy right now. From the way she relaxes minutely at my question, I’m convinced it was the right thing to say.

“Provisionally, yes,” she says. And then, unexpectedly, she smiles. “And so did I.”

“You did?” I mean, I know she talked about becoming an honorary member of her boyfriend’s gang, and this… Drogo… person is (was) presumably the boyfriend in question, but I wasn’t quite expecting…

“Apparently Drogo was hoping for more than a one night stand. So… we started spending time together.”

“So you became his…” Trophy? Prize? Consort? Hostage? Captive? “His girlfriend.”

It’s not really a question, but she answers as if it was, twitching one shoulder in a lopsided shrug. “As you say.”

Oh. Oh *Daenerys*.

I don’t ask how it happened, because I can picture it all too clearly. Fear. The overwhelming urge to comply, to do what’s expected, to be *good*. Not even knowing that you can say no, let alone how to do so. More ‘dates’. Assumptions left unchecked and a clear path of least resistance.

There but for the grace of god…

And then I’m struck by a sudden, awful realisation. No *wonder* she was so hostile towards Reza. No wonder she…

Did she see some of herself — that earlier, meeker self — in me? Does she still?

(Does she despise me the same way she despises her other self?)

I want to say something, but any words I can muster feel like too much, or not nearly enough so instead I just squeeze her hand. She squeezes back.

After a moment, she continues her account.

“When he saw how I took to being on the back of a motorbike, he offered to teach me how to ride one.” Something fierce flares in her eyes. “I was good at it. Better than Viserys, in point of fact. And he did not like that one bit. Nor did he like the fact that he was merely tolerated by the Bloodriders, whereas I… I was welcomed. This was a new experience for me. New and strange and wonderful. For the first time in a long time, I actually started to feel like I might not be worthless after all. Needless to say, Viserys didn’t like *that* either. He took his displeasure out on me in private, of course.”

My heart just about breaks at the matter of fact way she says that. Like ‘of course’ he would. ‘Of course’ that’s what a brother would do. I think of my own siblings. Rob, so determined to see the wonders of life, so determined to protect his family for the horrors it can bring. Bran, the survivor, refusing to let his accident turn him a bitter and twisted thing. Arya, still fiercely protective of her family even when she’s furious with us. Rickon, who, no matter how difficult he finds it to communicate with the rest of the world, always manages to make it clear that he loves us. Even Jon; quiet, loyal Jon, technically my half-brother, but always whole to me.

No, I don’t understand Viserys at all.

(I don’t understand him, but I hate him for the things he’s done.)

“One day, though, he made the mistake of taking it out on me in front of the Bloodriders. And they… defended me. *Drogo* defended me.” She seems almost awed at the thought. As if even now she has trouble believing that someone would stand up for her. Would protect her. Would take her side. (I know how she feels.) “And after that, things were different.”

She surfaces again from the depths of her memories, squeezing my hand lightly as she holds my gaze.

“I don’t mean everything was suddenly happy and perfect. But it was the first time I’d even considered the possibility that Viserys might have been wrong about me. That maybe *I* wasn’t the one who was weak.” Almost as an afterthought, she adds: “Drogo let him stay in the Bloodriders, but only because I asked him to. Viserys was still my brother, after all. I even thought — hoped — that this might act as a wake-up call. That we’d be able to go back to the way things were when we were little. Before he turned cold.”

She pauses there, looking almost expectant, so I ask the question to which I’m already sure I know the answer.

“And did they?”

“No,” she says simply, just as expected. “But things did change. I discovered… I managed to… I said no. To Drogo. And he listened.” She grimaces. “I didn’t mean to sound like that’s something to be praised, rather than just the bare minimum of how things should be. But back then, it seemed like the most amazing thing in the world.” She makes a disgusted noise in the back of her throat, shaking her head. “I was pathetic back then.”

“Don’t say that!” I burst out. “Don’t! You weren’t pathetic; you *weren’t*. You’d just been through a lot. And Viserys… What he did to you was wrong, but it wasn’t *your* fault. It was his. You shouldn’t blame yourself for trusting him. And you shouldn’t blame yourself for being afraid.”

The look she gives me is level, piercing and oddly compassionate.

“I’ll believe that if you will,” she says.

I stare at her, utterly nonplussed.

“What do you mean?” I whisper.

Her gaze holds mine steadily, implacable and unyielding. I want to look away, but I can’t. I want to pull away, but I find myself drawing closer. I want to say something, anything, to change the subject, to bring this conversation back to *her* life, *her* past, *her*; but my voice is nowhere to be found.

I can’t take this much longer.

I can’t…

I…

“You know what I mean,” she says, and her voice holds a world of sorrow. “I know you blame yourself for what your unnamed tormentor put you through.” She cocks her head. “What was his name again?” Wordlessly, I shake my head. “Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she murmurs, then continues in a level tone. “Maybe you should take your own advice.”

“But…” I begin, and then stop, having no idea how to continue my objection. Or even *why* I’m objecting. (No, that’s not true. I do know why.)

“Will you tell me what happened?” she asks, and for the first time since she pinned me with her gaze, she actually sounds… uncertain.

“This is supposed to be about you,” I protest faintly, my certainty sapped by the sudden overwhelming urge to *tell* her. To tell her everything, regardless of how it risks her contempt. I try to rally my flagging resistance. “I’m supposed to be helping you.”

“You are. You have. But right now, I want to be here for you. If you’ll let me. If you’ll… If you’ll trust me that much.” She swallows audibly, her hand tightening on mine once more. “I can be a good friend. I *want* to be. Won’t you let me be your friend?”

“Alright,” I say. After that plea, how can I not? “I’ll… I’ll try.”

“Thank you,” she says, and her eyes seem almost luminous with emotion. The sight of it seems to wake something in me, making me sit up straighter in my seat, giving me the strength and the determination to tell her about *him*.

Heaven knows I’m going to need it.


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mention of past violence and near sexual assault. Non-explicit.

Distantly, I wish I had a coffee or a hot chocolate or something, more for the comfort factor than out of any real appetite, but I know if I don’t do this now I won’t do it at all.

And I… I *want* to do this. I do. So I take my own advice from earlier and start at the beginning.

Well, *a* beginning.

“I met him back in secondary school. He always seemed very popular — lots of friends and hangers-on. I didn’t really know him that well, but he was…” I want to say ‘handsome,’ but the word sticks in my throat like a stone. “Lots of girls seemed to have crushes on him,” I say instead. I remember thinking… He seemed so witty and charming, so… so chivalrous. God, how stupid *was* I? “I never really spoke to him much until… Before what happened with Jeyne. We didn’t really… I guess we didn’t frequent the same circles.” 

Jeyne never did like him, whispers a voice from the back of my mind. Not him and not his friends. She said they were bullies, and she didn’t care to associate with bullies.

(Another voice, darker still, whispers that it was *because* she didn’t like him. That I only ran to him because I was running from her. That everything that happened afterwards was all my own fault.)

“So, what happened?” Daenerys’ voice, soft though it is, makes me start a little. I realise that I’d been drifting, as caught up in my own past nightmares as she’d been in hers. I have to remind myself that they *are* in the past; that he isn’t even in the same *county* at the moment. That he can’t torment me any more.

(Although a part of me — a black little corner of my soul — wants to see him try it in front of Daenerys, or Asha, or Shae, or any of my new friends. Something tells me that would not end well. For him.)

(But… no. That’s not who I am. It’s why I haven’t told Daenerys his name, after all.)

“It started when I was trying to give Jeyne some space. Things were… awkward… between us.” And that’s an understatement and a half. “By extension, things were a bit weird with the rest of our usual crowd. They knew something was wrong, but neither of us would tell them what it was. Well, I’m assuming Jeyne didn’t say anything. Not then, anyway. They certainly didn’t *seem* to know, judging by how much they kept asking. I sort of… kept my distance from all of them, a little bit. I hoped things would… settle down.”

I only just stop myself saying ‘go back to normal,’ but I learned my lesson last time. I won’t make that mistake again.

“Anyway, J-“ Whoops! “*He* started… talking to me. Started including me in his conversations, inviting me to his parties; that sort of thing. He seemed… He seemed *nice*.”

My voice cracks almost in two, so I have to clear my throat and try again. Daenerys makes a wordless, comforting noise and shifts position on the sofa. I’m momentarily bereft as she releases my hand, her feet no longer pressing against my thigh; my skin, even under my clothes, feeling her absence as keenly as it would any touch. But then the moment passes and she puts her left arm around my shoulders, reaching to clasp my right hand in hers. The clamouring sense of loss immediately fades away, replaced by feelings of warmth and safety.

(I feel safe in her arms.)

“I was lonely, and he was charming.” I give a little shrug, aiming for a tone of wry humour. I miss by a country mile, instead sounding almost forlorn. “It was a deadly combination. He, well, courted me I guess. Paid me compliments, gave me little presents. That kind of thing. I thought he liked me. And I…”

Liked him too? No, that’s not true. Not quite. I mean, he *was* charming, when he wanted to be, and I guess he was considered handsome, but…

But.

“I convinced myself I liked him too.”

(Because liking *him* was a perfectly normal thing for a girl of my age to do. Other girls fancied him; why not me? And if I did like him, then anything else I might have been feeling — like for Jeyne — obviously wasn’t real, and obviously didn’t mean a thing. And Jeyne would realise she was just confused, and we would be friends again, and everything would be just *fine*.)

(It would all be fine again.)

(And all *I* had to do was like him back.)

(I could do that, couldn’t I?)

“And did you?”

“Not…” (Not the way I liked Jeyne.) “Not the way he wanted me to. But, as I said, he seemed nice. And I thought that was…” I tried. I really tried. “So when he asked me to go out with him…” Upstairs at one of his parties, the room spinning a little from the drinks (so many drinks, and it would have felt rude to refuse them) he’d pressed into my hand. “I said yes.”

I tilt my head a little to look at Daenerys, half-fearing to see disgust in her eyes, but the only thing I see there is friendship, pure and true. And her voice is rich with compassion as she asks:

“How long did it take for him to show you his true colours?”

I laugh. I can’t help it; can’t keep back that harsh bray of a sound, even though nothing about this is even remotely funny. Except, in a twisted kind of way, it sort of is.

“That’s the stupid thing,” I say. “The really, really stupid thing. He didn’t even wait a whole day. Heck, he didn’t even wait five minutes. We were kissing, and that was okay, I guess, but-” I bite off the word, shaking my head. “Actually, no. It was pretty awful.”

So slobbery, teeth clacking together, his great slab of a tongue forcing its way between my lips. I’ve had better kisses from *dogs*. And when I think about kissing Margaery… (Or Jeyne.) Awful is doing him a *kindness*. Back then, I just put it down to the fact that it was my first time. (Even though it was technically the second and Jeyne’s kiss was so gentle in comparison.) I just assumed that any awkwardness was due to my inexperience, or our lack of familiarity with each other.

“Anyway, he wanted…” I drop my gaze, suddenly not able to look her in the eyes. Instead, I focus on our linked hands, her long, tanned fingers intertwined with my pale ones. (I can’t help noticing that we make a striking contrast.) But I can’t procrastinate forever, and it’s surely a testament to her patience that she’s let my hesitation go on this long without even attempting to prod me into further speech. “He wanted to go further than just kissing,” I say, my voice sounding oddly monotone in my ears. Like some kind of automaton.

The thought of his hands — pawing, groping, roughly squeezing — makes me want to shower, scrubbing away at my skin as if I can wash away even the memory of his touch. I try in vain to push the sensation aside, to fight my way free of its clutches, but the memories rise up like a tidal wave, the past consuming the present like wildfire in a dry forest. I’m drawing in great, gasping, heaving breaths — like I’m drowning somehow, even right here on dry land — but it still feels like I just can’t get enough air.

Like there isn’t enough air in this room, in the whole wide world, to chase away memories that cling to me like thick black oil; that feel every bit as toxic as oil.

But then Daenerys’ voice cuts through the panic, her embrace surrounding me like armour, like a shield.

“Sansa, it’s alright,” she says, her voice calm and even. “You’re safe here. I’ve got you. He can’t hurt you now, not while I’m here.” There’s a fierce edge to her words, a feeling like standing too close to an open flame, as she adds: “If *anyone* tries to harm you, they’ll regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”

I feel strangely torn. Most of me is happy to snuggle into her arms, to revel in the trust I feel, the absolute certainty that she means every word. As long as I’m with her, I know that I’m safe. And yet… And yet there’s a part of me that flinches back from the violence implicit in her tone, from even the idea of a conflict happening over me. Because of me. More than that, it reminds me that the capacity for violence, for anger — even when directed against someone who’d harm me — could still turn against me. (If I do something stupid, or wrong, or clumsy. If I do something to deserve it.) If I…

No.

No, I will *not* give into that poisonous little voice at the back of my mind. I refuse. Daenerys isn’t going to turn against me. She certainly isn’t going to hurt me. She wouldn’t! And even if she did — which she won’t — that bloody well doesn’t mean that I’d ever deserve it.

I don’t deserve it.

I *didn’t* deserve it.

Just like that, I’m calm again.

“I’m okay,” I say softly, even managing a small smile. “I just got a little… lost… for a moment or two. But I’m alright now.”

“You don’t have to talk about this if you don’t want to,” she says, worry plain in her eyes.

“I think I… I *want* to talk it,” I say softly, surprising myself. But as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise it’s true. “If you don’t mind,” I add. Because heaven knows my sad little story can’t be much fun to hear.

“Of course I don’t mind,” she says, and even though there’s a thread of ‘how can you even say such a foolish thing?’ running through those words, it doesn’t send me spiralling through endless loops of doubt and self-despite. It doesn’t feel… It’s not like she’s *judging* me or anything. It’s more like… reassurance.

I straighten my spine and pick up the thread of my account.

“I told him I wasn’t ready,” I say. “I told him to stop. And he did,” I add hurriedly, because I can all but sense the question starting to form on Daenerys’ lips. “But he wasn’t…” Happy with that? No. Why dissemble? “He was furious with me. He shouted, called me names; said the most horrible things.” Some of those things start to push their way to the front of my thoughts, the homunculus he left in my head ever-eager to remind me of his choicest words.

I imagine muzzling that hateful voice of his. Muzzling *him*.

It actually feels good. Petty, but good.

I hope that feeling can carry me through this next part.

“He hit me,” I whisper, and it feels like a confession. Without meaning to, I find myself looking at our joined hands again.

She mutters something I don’t understand. It’s in Berber, I’m pretty sure — at least I know it’s not English or French — but I don’t need to understand the words to figure out the sentiment behind them. Her tone — low and angry; words spat forth like bullets — speaks volumes all by itself.

I reach blindly up with my left hand, aiming to reassuringly pat the arm wrapped around my shoulders. Instead, I overshoot a little and end up cupping what feels like the smooth skin of her cheek. She starts noticeably against me, and I almost rip the offending hand away from her skin, but something makes me linger a little, lightly stroking my fingers along the curve of her jaw as I let it fall slowly free. She starts again, and then relaxes.

(I can’t help worrying that I’ve overstepped a line, but she doesn’t say a word about my little faux pas. I resolve to myself that as long as she doesn’t raise the subject, I won’t either. That’s probably the least awkward course of action.)

“It’s alright,” I tell her, somewhat amused at the thought that I’m reflecting her own words back to her. “He didn’t hit me hard. It was just a slap. It shocked me more than it actually hurt.”

“Of course it’s not alright!” She turns a little, angling us so that I have to look at her face, have to see her eyes overflowing with more emotion than I know what to do with. “Sansa, that kind of thing is *never* alright. It doesn’t matter whether it hurt or not. It matters that he fucking hit you.”

“I know,” I say, hating the way I sound so… placating.

“Do you?” she flashes back, quick as a whip.

“I think so. I mean, I do. Yes.”

I know he shouldn’t have. I know it wasn’t right. I do know that. So why do I sometimes still half-feel (maybe even more than half-feel) like I deserved it? Even though I didn’t. And even if I had, somehow, done something wrong, he still shouldn’t have hit me.

He shouldn’t.

“Yes, I do know that,” I say, and this time I actually sound like I believe it.

I think I really do believe it. At least I do right now.

(Later is… Well. I’ll worry about later when it’s later.)

She nods once, like she’s finally satisfied with my answer.

“Good,” she says, settling back into her previous position. (I don’t know whether to be relieved or sorry that I can’t see her eyes any more. My eyes drift back to our hands, still joined together.)

“Anyway, so.” I let out a sigh. “After he… After that happened, I just left. I didn’t even say anything to him; I just grabbed my bag, opened the door and ran.”

I still remember that run in my nightmares. Making my way through a house that suddenly seemed all shadows and strange angles, like it was actively *trying* to stop me escaping. The faces of the other guests — not a single one of my own friends among them, I suddenly realised — funhouse-mirror twisted, leering and jeering wherever I looked. Mocking laughter dogging my steps like a bean-sidhe’s wail.

“I couldn’t find my coat, so I just left it behind. Eventually I managed to find the front door.” Well, I guess it couldn’t really have been that long, but it certainly felt like an eternity at the time. “I headed down the drive — the, I mean, his family had a big house — and then just kept on walking.”

“What happened then?”

“I called Jon and asked him to come and get me.”

“One of your brothers?” Daenerys asks.

I nod. “The second-oldest.”

I remember hesitating for a long while over who to call. Mum and Dad were obviously right out. Rob… I very nearly did call him, but he would have wanted to know all the details; why I was leaving early, why I seemed so upset, who he needed to go and have ‘words’ with. Jon, though… Jon wouldn’t prod at me to talk about it if I didn’t want to. And he knew how to keep a secret. When I asked him not to tell anyone, just to come and get me, I knew he’d do it.

And he did.

“What did he say about your face?” she asks after a moment.

“Nothing. There wasn’t anything to see. It wasn’t hard enough to bruise, and I guess my cheeks were pretty red from the cold anyway. He did ask why I was wandering around without a coat, but I just said I’d forgotten it.”

He gave me the spare duffel coat he had stowed in the boot of his tiny car. Who on earth even *has* a spare duffel coat? Not to mention what looked like full camping gear, tent and all. And a box of protein bars, or whatever they were. I guess he really does believe in being prepared.

(And I don’t think he’s ever given up the worry that he’s just going to be kicked out onto the street, no matter how much Dad always tried to reassure him.)

“So what else did you tell him?”

“Just that I’d had a fight with a friend and couldn’t stay at the party any longer.” Which was sort of, maybe, true; from a certain angle. From a certain point of view. The second part definitely was, anyway. I’m pretty sure he realised there was more to it than that, but he didn’t press me for details. Instead, he just… “He took me for ice cream.”

I can feel my face softening, lips curving from their tight, tense little line into something that might even be a smile. I spent so much time determinedly not thinking about the bad times that I’d forgotten the shining jewels of the good ones. (None of which involved *him*, of course.)

“Ice cream? What time was this?” From the sound of her voice, I can tell Daenerys is arching her eyebrow quizzically.

“Not that late. Maybe ten, ten-thirty pm? But there’s an Italian ice cream parlour in the city centre that has really late hours. I think it’s because of all the students. The owners once told me they sometimes don’t close until the small hours of the morning. It’s one of my favourite places in Sheffield. They do the *best* chocolate gelato, and their lemon sorbet deserves an epic poem in its honour.”

I carefully avoid mentioning that a certain person not too far away from here may have written just such a poem. When she — I — was younger, of course. Much, much younger.

I hope the place is still around. I haven’t been there in a little while, and Rosa did say they were thinking about retiring… I immediately make myself a promise that, if it’s still open, I’m dragging my siblings there when I go back to Sheffield for the holidays.

I wish I could just lose myself in all the happy memories I made in that ice cream parlour (giggling with Jeyne as we stole spoonfuls of each other’s ice cream until eventually we just swapped bowls altogether), but I can’t. My story isn’t anywhere near finished yet, and I did promise Daenerys I would tell her about…

“Anyway,” I say, feeling my whole body sag a little as my thoughts turn back to *him*. Daenerys rubs my arm lightly, which feels… comforting. She really is very tactile. I’m not, usually, but with her it just feels natural. I think I could get to like it. (I think maybe I already do.) “The party was on a Friday night, so I was pretty much a mess the whole weekend.”

“Wasn’t there anyone you could talk to?” Daenerys asks, but she sounds like she already knows the answer to that one.

“No,” I reply anyway. “I’d alienated all my friends, and as for my family…”

I imagine how they might have reacted, cringing inside at the thought of the tidal wave of fury telling any of them would have unleashed. I think Arya might just have taken her fencing sword and stabbed him through the heart. Mum and Dad would have wanted to talk to his parents — well, his mother — and maybe the school board. And if *he* wasn’t pulled out of that school, I’m pretty sure I would have been. Rob and Jon might have just waited for him in a dark alley. Bran would have supported the whole vengeance thing, and Rickon was just too young to understand anything other than the fact that his sister was upset. He probably would have offered me one of his well-chewed, drool-dampened plush wolves — yes, Stark children get wolves, not teddy bears; it’s a tradition — to cuddle.

“I didn’t want them to know.” I half-expect her to ask why, but all she does is sigh softly. I clear my throat and continue. “But Monday came around, and when I saw him at school… It was like nothing had even happened! He called me his girlfriend, asked if I had a good weekend, and was generally… nice. He said he hoped I was feeling better. Some of his friends said the same thing. As if I’d left the party because I felt ill or something and not because he… He even said he’d been keeping my coat safe for me. I was so confused.”

“And you started to doubt your memory of what happened.”

“Yes, exactly. I thought… maybe I was mistaken. Maybe it was just some strange combination of alcohol and misunderstanding. And I hoped… I *wanted* to be mistaken; I wanted to so very much. So I just… I guess I just went along with it.”

My eyes are burning, but I press on the lids with my free hand. I am so sick and tired of crying over him. I won’t do it now. I *won’t*.

“I won’t bore you with all the details,” I say lightly, or try to. My bravado sounds painfully hollow to my own ears. God only knows how fake it sounds to Daenerys. *She* knows what real bravery sounds like. “But we ended up going out for over a year. I met his *mother*.”

“Not his father?” she asks.

“His father died,” I explain. “It happened a couple of years earlier. I don’t really know the details.”

Not the true details, anyway. There were… rumours, of course. Some people said Robert Baratheon drank himself to death. Some said he crashed his car while intoxicated. Some said he fell down the stairs while blitzed. So many different rumours, and the only constant was the alcohol. And the whisper that, however it happened, maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t entirely accidental. Certainly, I heard more than one person call Cersei Baratheon — no, Lannister; she went back to her maiden name pretty much as soon as he passed away — the Black Widow.

Just… not to her face.

(Although a part of me can’t help thinking that she would rather enjoy that nickname, at least a little.)

But I’m letting myself get distracted.

“Things seemed… good… for a little while,” I continue.

“Long enough for you to convince yourself you were mistaken,” she murmurs.

There are so many things I could say to that, but in end I settle on a simple: “Yes.” I wait to see if she has anything else to add, but that seems to be it for the moment.

“And then things started getting… less good.” Ungood. Double-plus ungood. “It didn’t happen overnight, but… he started criticising me. Started telling me what to do. My friends… Well, he and *his* friends didn’t like them at all. They said some pretty awful things to and about them. I tried to stand up for *my* friends. For Jeyne. I *did*. I really tried.”

It’s important to me that she believes that. That she knows I at least tried. I didn’t just give up on them without a fight, no matter that we were barely even speaking to each other.

“I know you did,” she says soothingly, rubbing my arm again. And maybe she’s just being polite, maybe she’s just saying what she thinks I want to hear in an effort to keep me calm, but I don’t care about that right now. It’s enough that she says it at all.

Panic releases its stranglehold on my throat, allowing me to breathe again. I hadn’t even realised I’d stopped. I take a deep breath, and then another.

“That’s when he hit me for the second time,” I say. “But not for the last.”

“Did he…” She stops, draws in an audible breath. I can feel her trembling against me and I wonder if it’s too much for her. If my account is reminding her too strongly of the monster in her own past. Or, not past. Not the same way that *he’s* in mine. After all, her tormentor was her own so-called brother.

I start to ask if she wants to change the subject, but she interrupts me.

“Did he try to rape you again?”

I freeze; complete mental and physical paralysis. Rebooting my mind into something even close coherent consciousness feels like it’s a herculean act of will. I resist the urge to shake my head, lest it seem like a negation. A denial.

“It wasn’t… I mean, he stopped before… So it wasn’t really… I mean…” I run out of words.

“That’s not a ‘no’,” she observes. There’s something in her voice, something I can only describe as dangerous. I can’t help thinking that I would not want Daenerys Targaryen to ever be truly, vindictively *angry* with me. Fortunately, I don’t think that’s ever likely to happen.

No matter what the voices in my head try to tell me.

She’s not like *him*. She’s not like him at all. And, the more I think about it, the more I start poking through the things I’ve been keeping imperfectly locked away all this time, the more I’m starting to think that the only person like him… is *him*. And what he was… was pretty messed up.

Suddenly, I feel utterly and completely calm. Dry eyes, steady voice. My hands aren’t even shaking. I wonder if this means I’m in the eye of the storm; if the tempest is poised to rip me to shreds as soon as I pass through this false lacuna. But maybe it isn’t false. Or, if it is, maybe Daenerys can protect me from its fury. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I’ve started this, and I have to finish it.

I’ll worry about afterwards when it happens.

“He tried, yes,” I say. “A couple of times. Not that often.” She makes an odd, strangled noise. Maybe a sob? Is she… crying? Over this? (Over me?) I’m afraid to look. “He did stop, though,” I hasten to reassure her. “Even though he wasn’t very happy about it. He said…” And now I feel my artificial composure start to crack a little, letting some of raging storm inside my place of sanctuary. “He said I owed him. That I…”

“Bullshit!” she snaps. “That is absolutely not true. You didn’t owe that little shitheel *anything* except a good hard kick in the bollocks. Maybe several. But you *certainly* didn’t owe him sex, no matter what he told you.”

“But… But what if I gave out the wrong signals or something?” I hate the way my voice sounds now, so timid and tremulous. I try to strengthen it, try to wrap my composure around myself like armour. (Like her embrace.) Like it can keep me safe from the slings and arrows he can seemingly hurl at me even now, when he isn’t even here. “What if he thought I wanted him?”

She shifts position again so she can see my face.

I never realised that eyes so brightly, brilliantly blue could seem so dark. A thought drifts through my head, a fragment of a line from my still-unfinished, still untitled paranormal romance epic: ’and doom was writ within them…’ *His* doom, if she ever finds him.

For her sake — and *only* her sake — I hope she never does.

“It doesn’t matter if he thought you were begging him to take you right in the middle of your classroom,” she says, her voice somehow, miraculously level despite the roiling fury in her eyes. “You always have the right to say no. *Always*. And he wasn’t *entitled* to a damn thing. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but…” I sigh. “It’s more complicated than that, isn’t it? Yes, you can always say no, and that should be respected, but… Well. People talk about girls ‘asking for it’ all the time, don’t they? So, maybe he thought I was…”

“Sansa, no,” she says, and now her eyes are pools of endless sorrow. “The people who say things like that… They’re wrong. They’re *always* wrong. And it doesn’t matter what so-called ‘signals’ you might have been giving — not that I think you were — or even if you said yes, but then changed your mind. No. Means. No. And *no one* gets to make you feel guilty for saying it. Anyone who feels differently about it can go fuck themselves sideways with a *shovel*.”

The incongruity of hearing one of Asha’s phrases from Daenerys almost makes me laugh out loud.

The very next moment, I think I might start crying and never stop.

“Don’t you remember what you said to me about Drogo?” she continues. “How angry you were with him for something that was more ignorance than malice?” I bristle instinctively at the reminder of what he did to her. Somehow, somewhere, I find some hidden core of strength I didn’t even know I had, opening my mouth to take issue with her implication that ‘ignorance’ lets him off the hook. Unfortunately — or, fortunately? — she doesn’t give me the chance to speak. “Why can’t you see that it’s just the same for you?”

The question floors me.

“It…” I start, and then stop. I try again. “It…”

It wasn’t the same for me. It isn’t the same for me. It…

Wait.

*Why* isn’t it?

Because… Because he said it was my fault, and I believed him. I’ve believed him all this time. That I was unwittingly leading him on, somehow. (That I was acting like a slut.) And that gave him a right to… To…

He told me one thing, but Daenerys is telling me something else. And I… I…

Why the hell would I trust his word over hers?

Why would I trust the word of someone who seemed to live to put me down? Who smiled when he hurt me? Who laughed at me when I was scared half-out of my wits by the thought of what he might do to me the next time we were alone?

Why would I trust the word of a… a… spiteful little *shitheel* over the best and truest person I’ve ever known? The best friend I’ve ever had? Someone who I… I…

Fuck. That. Noise.

Fuck it sideways with a *shovel*!

I sit up straight and meet Daenerys’ gaze squarely, even levelly. For the first time since I started talking, I feel — *really* feel — like I’m not in imminent danger of being swept away by the past. I’m here, fully here, in the present. With Daenerys. My *friend*.

(I think there’s no place on earth that I’d rather be.)

I take a slow, measured breath giving myself a moment to put my thoughts in order before I answer her question.

“By that point I was convinced I deserved everything I got,” I say. “Everything he said, everything he did to me. I was convinced I was worthless, that my friends had only ever spent time with me out of pity. That I was completely and utterly alone. Except for him.”

Daenerys searches my face, looking for… I don’t know what she’s looking for. Whatever it is, though, I think she finds it. Seeming relieved, she simply asks:

“What changed?”

I shrug. “I did, I suppose. He seemed… After we’d been going out for a while, he just seemed to take it for granted that I’d do what he said; follow his *orders*. Bend over backwards to make him happy. And he started talking about… about celebrating the end of the school year. By…” Even as calm and composed as I am, I still can’t bring myself to say it. “Well, you know,” I temporise.

Daenerys draws in a sharp breath. She looks as if she’s about to say something, but I hurry onwards before she can speak. Now the end is in sight, I just want to get this over with. Over and done and safely returned to the annals of history where it belongs. Not a part of my present. Not a part of who I am now. Just a thing that happened, once, but is now done. Finished. Irrelevant.

“But the thing is, that wasn’t even the final straw. It was when he was talking about *next* year. About afterwards. And I could see it all stretching ahead of me.”

A shudder wells up inside me at the thought of what might have happened. Of still being with him even now. I try to suppress it, but I’m not sure I’m entirely successful. Daenerys tightens her arm around me, giving my hand a squeeze, and suddenly I’m okay again.

Because it didn’t happen that way.

Because I *have* escaped him, even if I haven’t escaped his voice.

Because even if he does, somehow come back into my life, things are different now.

I’m not alone. I have friends. I have *Daenerys*.

And that changes everything.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a heads-up, my posting may be fairly erratic for the next couple of months due to game conventions and Femslash Ex.

I take a calm, steady breath, gathering my thoughts; getting everything in order in my mind. Only then do I continue.

“I couldn’t accept the future he was describing. I just couldn’t. So I decided I’d rather cope with his fury in the short-term and broke up with him. Publicly. In front of all his friends.” I twist around, looking up at Daenerys with — much to my surprise — a wry smile on my lips. “And then I transferred to another school.”

“Just like that?” she asks.

I sigh. “Well, no. Not quite just like that. My school had a sixth form — year twelve — so I was supposed to stay on there to do my A levels. But I managed to speak with someone at The Sheffield College and persuade them to take a late application.” I shrug. “Apparently I was sufficiently persuasive.” Desperation was certainly powerful motivation to succeed. “My parents were surprised, and maybe a little disappointed — my school had a sterling academic reputation and a lot of their pupils went on to Oxford or Cambridge afterwards. But I presented it to them as a fait accompli, and they eventually came around.”

How differently my life would have gone if they hadn’t, or if I hadn’t been able to talk my way into the college. Maybe I’d have managed to kick *him* out of my life some other way; maybe I wouldn’t. Maybe I’d be at Oxford or Cambridge right now, not Nottingham. Maybe I’d never have met Daenerys, or all my other friends.

This is better. This is so much better. For once in my life, I have absolutely no regrets whatsoever.

There’s a frown on Daenerys’ face, and I’m not sure what’s wrong, but it all becomes clear when she speaks.

“How did he react when you told him?”

Oh. Right.

“He… wasn’t happy.” Another understatement. I seem to be particularly prone to them when I’m talking about him. “He started yelling at me, calling me all sorts of names. I tried to just leave, but he came after me.” Even now I feel a flare of annoyance at myself for letting him chase me into somewhere deserted. There was a reason I’d told him in public, but then I found myself alone with him after all. “He hit me again.”

The expression on Daenerys’ face can only be described as ‘murderous,’ I hurry onwards.

“It was the last time,” I tell her. “The very last time.”

“What happened next?” she asks, her voice low and tight, sounding like nothing short of a titanic act of will is keeping her from leaping up and speeding off on her motorbike to make him pay.

Well, that and the fact that she doesn’t know who he is. But if anyone can overcome a little obstacle like that, I’d bet it would be her.

I need to keep talking.

“Unlike the other times, I actually stood up for myself. I told him… I told him if he touched me again — if he so much as talked to me again, or looked at me, or even breathed in the direction of any of my friends — I’d go to my brothers and tell them the things he’d said and done. All of them. I told him they’d make sure he could never do anything like that to me or anyone else. I said they’d hurt him. I… I threatened him… and he backed down. He backed down.”

I can hear the disbelief in my voice; the wonder. Even now, I can’t quite believe it worked.

“He called me a few more nasty names, but he didn’t hit me again.” Even though I could tell he wanted to. Or worse. “And then he left.” I shrug. “I saw him a couple of times after that, but he never really came near me again.”

There was one time, when we ran into each other in town and it looked like he might… But luckily I had the presence of mind to get out my phone, as if I was making good on my threat. Even more luckily, he turned tail and, not exactly ran, but definitely left as fast as dignity would allow. Maybe even a little faster. If he hadn’t… To this day I don’t know if I would’ve actually gone through with it. I’m just glad I didn’t have to find out.

I take a deep breath, letting it out again in a soft, slow sigh.

“It was… It was finally over.”

I was so relieved. And, at the same time, almost… Not disappointed; I didn’t miss him or anything stupid like that. I was nothing but glad to have him out of my life. Maybe… surprised is a better word. Surprised it was that easy to scare him away.

Disappointed that I hadn’t tried it sooner.

What would have happened if I’d stood up for myself the first time he showed me his true colours? If I’d reminded him — if I’d remembered — that I wasn’t really alone. If I’d realised that *I* didn’t have anything to be ashamed of. That the only one who’d lose from me breaking my silence would be him.

But hindsight is twenty-twenty, and at the time I was such gloom that I could barely see my hand in front of my face, metaphorically speaking.

I suppose there’s no sense dwelling on what-ifs and might-have-beens, but I think a part of me will always wonder.

I study Daenerys’ face to see how she’s taking this, but her expression is inscrutable. It’s only a few moments before she speaks, but that’s more than long enough for my mind to start to tie itself in knots wondering if she thinks badly of me, if she despises me for taking so long to stand up to him. But the first words out of her mouth are:

“I’m so proud of you, Sansa.”

I blink at her, not sure if I’ve heard her correctly.

“But I should have stood up to him so much sooner. I shouldn’t have let him have that much power over me. I should-“

“And by that logic, I should have stood up to my brother. If I’d done that when things first started going bad, it would have avoided a whole lot of unpleasantness. Wouldn’t it?”

“But that’s different!” I protest. “You were so young, and with everything else that happened, who could possibly expect…?”

“You weren’t that old yourself,” she breaks in gently. “And you were at a vulnerable time. He took advantage of that. Of you. He isolated you from anyone and everyone who might have been able to help you. He intimidated you. Convinced you that no one would be able to help you — would *want* to help you — even if you did tell someone. And, worse than that, he made you feel… complicit. Like it was something you did together, not something he was doing *to* you. Like you were to blame. Didn’t he?”

I nod wordlessly, unable to speak if my life depended on it.

Complicit.

Yes. Yes, that’s exactly how he made me feel.

“But that wasn’t true. It wasn’t and it isn’t.” Her voice starts to rise, growing more passionate, more *fervent* as she continues. “*None* of it was your fault. It was his; it was all on him. Every last bit of it.”

“But if I’d been stronger,” I argue, unable to help myself even though I want nothing more than to agree with her. “He wouldn’t have been able to-”

“It’s not about strength,” she says. “Listen to me: you were vulnerable, and he exploited that. He’s a sociopath. A predator.” A grimace crosses her face. “No,” she corrects herself. “A scavenger. A coward. A grade-A *arsehole*. And you have absolutely nothing on earth to be ashamed of.”

She looks at me expectantly, like she wants me to say something. To agree with her. To believe what she’s saying. And I…

I *want* to. And I guess I’ve been trying to tell myself the same thing. And… And…

But before I say *anything*, there’s a question burning through me; a question I absolutely have to ask her.

“Do you…” My voice cracks, so I clear my throat and try again. “Do you think badly of me?”

Daenerys stares at me like she’s never seen me before.

“What?” she asks, after what feels like forever. “Do you really…? Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said?”

“Of course I’ve been listening,” I hasten to reassure her. “I just wanted… I wanted to make sure, that’s all.”

Half-closing her eyes for a moment, she mutters something incomprehensible but frustrated-sounding under her breath, then fixes me with a gaze that feels like it could pierce solid rock.

“Let’s try this again,” she says, in a much more level and patient tone than I was expecting. “No, I don’t think badly of you. I think badly of that little shitstain for what he did you, and I really wish you *had* set your brothers on him, but of you I think only good things. If anything, you’ve risen in my estimation for not only enduring that, but not letting it twist you or harden your heart. Not like-“ She cuts herself off so sharply, I wonder if she literally bites her tongue, but she doesn’t give me the chance to question the abrupt change of direction. “You’re so kind and caring and gentle,” she continues. “And don’t ever think that’s a weakness, because it isn’t. It *isn’t*. In a world like this, it’s nothing short of miraculous.”

She shakes her head, the motion sudden and jerky, but she doesn’t pull her eyes away. And I… I’m pinned by the weight of her stare, unable to move or speak or even *breathe*, or so it seems, as she leans in closer, so close I almost fancy I can feel her breath on my lips.

“You’re amazing, Sansa Stark. And don’t you dare let anyone tell you any different. Especially not yourself.”

There’s a moment, or an eternity, when it feels like the world holds its breath. When anything, absolutely anything could happen.

But then the world shifts on its axis, the stars move out of alignment, and the moment is past. Daenerys draws back a little way, breaking our locked gazes, breaking whatever spell it is that had me in its grip, and everything returns to something approximating normal.

(Normal, but my face is flushed and my heart is pounding like I’ve just run a marathon.)

(Normal, but it feels like something momentous, something huge and paradigm-changing *almost* happened, but didn’t. And I can’t for the life of me think what that might be.)

(Normal, but it feels like I don’t even know what that is any more.)

I feel like I should say something, but I don’t know what.

“Thank you,” I try, and that feels sort of right (and sort of not), so I make myself continue. “Thank you for listening. For being here for me.”

I find myself with a genuine smile upon my lips, suddenly feeling about a thousand stone lighter for having told someone the secret I’ve been carrying out all this time. I never even realised how much it was weighing me down. Because it’s one thing to tell myself I wasn’t to blame, that I didn’t do anything wrong, but it’s something else entirely to hear someone else say it.

And I’d take *her* word over his any day of the week and twice on Sundays.

After a moment, Daenerys smiles back.

“You’re welcome,” she says softly. “But you really don’t need to thank me. It’s just what friends do, after all. It’s what you’ve done for me. Why would I do any less?”

I don’t know if I have an answer to that, but I don’t know that she needs one. In any case, she’s moving, suddenly, uncurling her arm from around my shoulders, disentangling our fingers. It takes me a moment to realise what’s happening (to push away the inexplicable feeling of loss that wells up inside me), but then I try to help. As soon as we’re no longer in contact, I’m suddenly aware of the myriad aches and pains and cramps that I hadn’t even registered until this moment. I flex my fingers carefully, trying not to wince. Daenerys clambers to her feet, her movements lacking some of their usual fluidity.

I idly wonder how long we’ve spent curled up together on the sofa, sharing secrets.

(I wonder if we’ll ever do this again.)

“Anyway,” she says firmly. “I don’t know about you, but I’m in serious need of a stretch. And I’m utterly parched. Do you fancy a drink?”

I consider for a moment, then nod.

“I’ll make them,” I offer, getting somewhat stiffly to my own feet.

“Alright,” she says. “I’ll get us some snacks.” She hesitates for a moment, and then adds, diffidently. “Maybe when we’re settled, I can tell you what happened with Drogo and Viserys. If you want. If that’s alright.”

“Of course.” I start to say I’d be glad to hear it, but then change my mind. It doesn’t exactly seem appropriate, somehow. Instead, I change it to: “It sounds like a plan.” We look at each other for a moment, and then I give myself a mental shake. “So, what kind of coffee would you like?”

 

* * * * *

 

A short while — and a much-needed bathroom break — later, we’re ensconced on the sofa again, me with my caramel latte and Daenerys with her gingerbread-half-caramel-cinammon-latte with a drizzle of toffee nut syrup and a dusting of chocolate powder. I’m actually feeling pretty pleased with myself about those drinks. This time, I managed to take the milk off the heat at exactly the right moment, and my froth came out perfectly. Well, I’m sure it’s not perfect, per se — there’s always room for improvement, after all — but I think it came out as well as can be expected. It’s definitely a perfectly respectable attempt.

A tray of miscellaneous snacks rests between us on the sofa (like a barricade), its contents thoroughly plundered. Not that I was really hungry, but they definitely hit the spot. (I hope Daenerys doesn’t think I’m a greedy pig. Not that I think she really would. Anyway, I wasn’t the only one scoffing them down. Not that she ever scoffs anything, of course.) By mutual, unspoken agreement, we’ve been keeping our conversation to lighter subjects as we prepared and devoured refreshments, but in the silence that now settles over us, I find my thoughts turning back to weightier matters. From the look on her face, Daenerys’ thoughts are drifting in the same direction.

I think about prompting her, but decide against it. I don’t want her to feel like I’m pushing her. Besides, I have the feeling that the silence isn’t going to last much longer. Sure enough, she soon draws breath to speak.

“Shall I continue?” she asks, her tone utterly neutral.

“Only if you want to,” I say gently.

She seems to think for a moment, and then nods.

“I do.”

Her movements smooth and measured, she takes a sip of her drink. With a small flare of professional pride, I note that she isn’t gulping this one down, but actually seems to be savouring each mouthful. I resist the urge to preen a little. (I wouldn’t want to start getting a swelled head. Self-esteem is one thing, but arrogance is another thing altogether.)

“Alright,” she says. “Where was I?”

You said no to Drogo, is what goes through my mind. But what I say out loud is:

“The bikers defended you from your brother, and things were going better with Drogo.”

“That’s right,” she says, nodding. “So, as I think I said, Drogo let Viserys stay in the Bloodriders, mainly because I asked him to. I still half-thought that Viserys might just walk away — his pride had been hurt, after all — but he didn’t. He did keep his distance from me for a while, though, and I didn’t exactly chase after him.” Her lips curve in a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I think that surprised him. Before, whenever he’d pulled away from me — which he did from time to time — I’d practically fallen over myself trying to persuade him to stay. Not to abandon me. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I needed him.”

I want to take her hand again, to provide silent comfort with a touch, but there’s that space between us now. It’s not like the gap is too far to bridge, or like the tray is really that much of an obstacle, but the idea reaching over it feels… bigger, somehow; more deliberate than simply letting my hand brush hers.

Suddenly, I feel horribly self-conscious even just thinking about this, so I (try to) push the thoughts away.

(Maybe I should clear the tray away and just see what happens. Maybe. But not right now.)

“What happened then?” I ask.

“Drogo and I spent some time actually getting to know each other. And it was like… It felt like we were starting over again. It wasn’t just Drogo, either, it was the rest of the Bloodriders. For the first time, I was seeing them as they were, not clouded by my preconceptions.”

She twitches one shoulder in a lopsided shrug, giving me a rueful smile.

“Don’t get me wrong: I’m not saying they’re really saints under all the studs and tattoos and leather. They are a biker gang, after all, and their reputation wasn’t exactly unearned.” The smile fades into a thoughtful expression. “But they’re fiercely loyal, and they look out for their own. And the thing I realised then was that they saw *me* as one of their own. For the first time, I actually started to feel like I belonged there, with them. That I wasn’t just being tolerated because of my brother.”

I can see how that would be attractive to someone who’d felt so alone for years. Heck, I imagine it would be downright euphoric.

Actually, I don’t have to imagine. I know firsthand what it’s like to suddenly have friends after spending so long without any; after spending so long believing you’ll always, always be alone. (That maybe solitude is the best you can ever hope for, because the alternative can be so much worse.)

“It sounds like they were only tolerating him because of you,” I murmur, because I feel like I should say something.

“I suppose so,” she says.

She looks down at her drink as if she’s searching for enlightenment in its depths, as if somehow the mug she’s cradling contains the wisdom of the ages. Whatever she’s seeking, she doesn’t seem to find it, shifting restlessly in place before lifting her gaze to mine. Something in me twists at the look in her eyes, so raw and open. I feel almost uncomfortable seeing her look so… exposed, like merely witnessing it is breaking some great taboo. Like I’m profaning something holy.

Or…

Or like I’m privileged beyond compare to be honoured like this.

In either event, I can’t look away.

“I fell in love with him,” she tells me, and even though I knew that already, the words hit me like a punch to the gut, like a slap in the face, like the force of them should rock me back on my heels. Maybe they would, if I was standing up. “I fell so hard, so completely, that it was like I couldn’t even remember what my world was like without him in it. He *was* my world. He was my sun and stars.”

‘True love,’ whispers one voice from the shadowed recesses of my mind.

‘Stockholm syndrome,’ whispers another.

I shush them both.

“And when we made love…” Her breath catches in her throat; half-laugh, half-sob. “I finally understood what all the fuss was about. That it didn’t have to hurt. That it could feel… wonderful.”

“Oh, Daenerys,” I breathe. My eyes start to fill with tears.

In a flurry of motion, she suddenly moves the tray aside and shifts closer to me, resting her hand on mine. (I’m so relieved that the decision’s been taken out of my hands. No pun intended.)

“It’s alright,” she says, like somehow *I’m* the one in need of comfort. “It was a long time ago. I’m alright now.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, and somehow, without my conscious intention, my hand turns in hers and grips it tightly. “I just wish you’d never had to go through that in the first place.”

She returns my grip, giving me a small smile even though her eyes look suspiciously shiny.

“Well, I wish you’d never met that little weasel who treated you so badly,” she says wryly, startling a laugh out of me. “So I guess that makes us even.”

“I suppose it does,” I say lightly.

She squeezes my hand again.

“Anyway,” she says. “Things were going pretty well, and I was happier than I’d been in a while. The only fly in the ointment — aside from Viserys’ perpetual sulk, that is — was that I started feeling a little off.”

“Off?” I repeat. “Off how?”

My mind is suddenly filled with thoughts of poison. Some kind of revenge plot by this erstwhile brother of hers; something grand and gothic and utterly mad. But in the next moment I realise I’m being utterly ridiculous, because things like that just don’t happen in real life. Do they?

Daenerys has a strange little smile on her face, one I can’t decipher.

“Off like feeling bloated and heavy. Like feeling sick.” She fixes me with a piercing gaze, and I feel an overwhelming rush of deja vu, like we’ve had this conversation before. All of a sudden, I know with absolute certainty exactly what she’s going to say.

“Like being pregnant,” she breathes.

She looks like she’s waiting for my reaction, but I’m too busy processing her revelation to even think of speaking.

Pregnant. At, what? Fifteen? Sixteen? I can’t even imagine what that must have been like. What did her parents, no, her grandparents say? What did *Drogo* say? Did… Did she keep it? Does she have a son or daughter at home with one or the other set of grandparents? Is she a *mother*?

But she’s still waiting for me to say something, so I try to gather up my scattered wits and think of something coherent.

“Didn’t you use protection?” I blurt out, which, with hindsight, probably wasn’t the best or most tactful thing to say. But the words are out there now, and she doesn’t *seem* to be horribly offended or anything. I resist the urge to try to take my question back.

“Mostly,” she says, looking a little… It takes me a moment to recognise the expression, because it isn’t one I’m used to seeing on her face, but she looks a little embarrassed. “Not always. It didn’t occur to me to insist, and Drogo had apparently assumed I was on the pill.” She gives a tiny shrug; the slightest lift and fall of her shoulders. “I was… pretty naive back then. I didn’t even realise what was happening to me. And I likely would have remained in blissful ignorance up until the moment I actually gave birth.”

“Surely someone would have noticed?” I can’t help blurting out. “I mean, being pregnant isn’t exactly something you can hide. There are some pretty obvious signs.”

Although, even as I say that, I can’t help remembering that girl in my year at school. Dawn was her name; Dawn Grayson. One day, not long before our final exams, she just disappeared. And then the rumours started. Apparently, she’d given birth. To twins, no less. And no one had the first clue until her waters broke. I know the school gossip mill can be like Chinese whispers, but I saw the proof with my own eyes. Marion Barker, Dawn’s best friend — although even she had apparently been just as clueless as the rest of us — managed to get in to see her, and she sneaked a photo of Dawn with her baby girls before Dawn’s parents kicked her out. So it definitely happened. According to Marion, Dawn had wanted to finish her GCSEs before telling anyone about her condition, but biology pre-empted her.

I wonder if she ever managed to take her exams. She just kind of… disappeared. And then, I guess, so did I.

“Someone did notice,” Daenerys says wryly. “My grandmaman.”

“So, what happened then?”

I try to keep my voice calm and supportive, not to show any sign of my burning curiosity, my overwhelming need to *know*. How did Drogo react? Did Daenerys have a child? Did she keep it? Give it up for adoption? Is she really a mother? Or did she… take steps?

She sighs. “First of all, there was a visit to the doctor. Then… all hell broke loose.” I lean in a little, giving her hand a comforting squeeze. She flashes me a quick smile. “My grandparents — both sets — wanted to know how it happened; who was responsible. There was… a certain amount of blame flying round.” I draw breath to ask a question, but she answers it before I can even speak the words. “Not at me,” she says hurriedly. “My mother’s parents blamed my father’s parents for not keeping a closer eye on me. My father’s parents blamed Viserys for letting someone ‘take advantage’. *I* was assumed to be blameless in all of this.”

She snorts as if the idea of that is utterly ridiculous. I have to bite my lip to stop myself retorting that she *was* blameless. That it was all Drogo’s fault.

“What happened with Drogo?” I have to ask. “Did you tell him? Did you tell your grandparents who the father was? Did Viserys say anything?”

“I didn’t tell my grandparents anything, and neither did Viserys.” She grimaces. “Well, he told them I was a slut, and asked how he was supposed to stop me giving it up to anyone who so much as looked at me twice, but honestly that was less than helpful.”

“Did they believe him?” I ask, struggling with a sudden flare of unexpected and uncharacteristic white-hot fury. How *dare* Viserys say such a thing! Especially when he was the one who’d *traded* her to Drogo like some kind of… of chattel.

If he was here right now, I swear I could not be held responsible for my actions.

“No, I don’t think so,” she says. “But they assumed he must know something, so since I was staying silent, they focused their attention on him. As for me…” She sighs. “They’d been keeping me in lockdown: not allowed to leave the house without one of my grandparents by my side, phone confiscated, no e-mail or internet. They didn’t want me getting in contact with ‘the father’ on my own. But that was the thing I wanted most in all the world!”

“I can understand why they didn’t want that, though,” I murmur, carefully *not* saying that maybe it was for the best.

“So can I, *now*,” she says ruefully. “But at the time… Let’s just say that I wasn’t exactly at my calmest or most rational. I was worried… Worried that Drogo would get in trouble, worried he wouldn’t want to see me again, worried about the baby… Although, honestly, I still hadn’t really wrapped my head around the fact that I was carrying a child inside me. It just didn’t seem quite real. But I knew I had to talk to Drogo. I needed to find out once and for all what he thought, what he wanted to do. Then I could decide… Then I could figure out what I wanted.”

“You went to see him, didn’t you?” I ask the question, even though I’m already certain of the answer. Sure enough, she nods.

“I said I was going to bed, then I sneaked out of my window.”

“Wasn’t that dangerous? You could have fallen. And, I mean, the baby…”

“It wasn’t that dangerous. I was hardly even showing; certainly not enough to hinder my movements. The climb was a pretty easy one, and I’ve always been nimble. So I got outside and I went to find Drogo.” She half-shrugs. “I’ll spare you the details of my frantic haring about all over town. The important thing is that I found him, and we talked.” A slow smile spreads over her face; bright and happy and almost awed. “He was over the moon. He thought… He said it was wonderful. A blessing. And he proposed to me, right then and there.”

“He asked you to marry him?” I cringe a little at the blatant disbelief in my tone — I had honestly been expecting a much less… gallant… response on his part — but Daenerys just shoots me an amused look.

“That is generally what proposing to someone involves, yes,” she observes dryly.

I blush.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“That’s alright,” she says, squeezing my hand reassuringly. “Honestly, it wasn’t what I was expecting either. I didn’t know what to expect. But as soon as he asked me, I knew it was everything I could possibly hope for. I said yes, of course.”

‘Of course,’ she says, like it’s really that obvious. Once again, it hits me: I don’t know this other Daenerys — this younger, more naive, more timid version — at all.

“What did your grandparents say?”

I can’t imagine either set would be too pleased about their little Daenerys marrying the leader of a ‘fearsome’ biker gang. Although maybe they would’ve thought that preferable to her being pregnant *and* unwed. Honestly, it could have gone either way.

“We, ah, decided it was better to ask forgiveness than permission and sort of, well, eloped.”

It feels like my eyebrows shoot up almost to my hairline.

Daenerys was *married*? That’s almost as big a shock as finding out that she was once pregnant (that she could be a mother). Daenerys Targaryen, pregnant teenage bride.

Does. Not. Compute.

But she talked about her boyfriend before. Her *boyfriend’s* biker gang. Not her *husband’s*. I would have remembered *that*. But… maybe that was the point. I guess boyfriend raises far less questions than husband.

Far, far less.

“I bet that went down well,” I say belatedly, since she seems to be waiting for a response of some kind.

“Not precisely, no,” she says ruefully. “But by that point it was a fait accompli. There was nothing my grandparents could do. Technically they could try to get the marriage annulled, but we managed to persuade them not to.”

“That must have taken some persuading,” I murmur.

I shudder inside at the thought of my mum’s reaction if I did something like that. Not that I would, of course, but just thinking about it is enough to bring me out in a cold sweat.

“It did, rather,” she says wryly. “A lot of it from Drogo, in point of fact. We must have talked for hours on end. But eventually, and after a fair number of concessions, they… didn’t exactly welcome their new son in law with open arms, but they seemed to accept that we were determined to raise our child together, with or without their blessing. When it came down to it, they decided they’d rather give their blessing — however grudging — and have us in their lives.” She grins suddenly. “I knew we’d reached a turning point when they started arguing about where we were going to live. After that, the rest was just detail.”

“Quite a lot of detail, though,” I note. There must have been so many arrangements to make. And what would they do for money?

“I suppose so,” she says, her gaze turning distant. “I don’t really remember that part of it. I just remember feeling like this was it; this was my happy ever after.” Her smile this time is tinged with sadness. “You see, I used to believe in fairytales too.”

With a sudden, brusque motion, she brings her mug to her lips, draining the rest of the coffee — only the dregs by this point, surely — in a single swallow. It looks to me like she’s wishing it was something stronger than coffee and syrup.

“I should have known better,” she says, and there’s something so bleak about the way she says those words that I find myself shifting closer to her, trying to comfort with closeness.

“Drogo got a job in my grandparents’ restaurant,” she says, and the incongruity of the mental image that inspires — a big scary biker guy chopping vegetables! — makes me stare at her goggle-eyed as she continues. “Some members of his gang weren’t exactly too happy about that. They thought…” She purses her lips. “Well, let’s just say they expressed some rather forthright and uncomplimentary opinions, largely about me.”

“I can imagine.”

Yes, I can see that some of the Bloodriders wouldn’t take well to the idea of their big bad leader turning respectable. And, naturally, they’d blame Daenerys. Because men are such emotionally fragile creatures, incapable of resisting a woman’s wiles. And how dare the underage, innocent girl get pregnant from a sexual relationship she never wanted in the first place? Did he even stand up for his *wife*? Did he defend her against his so-called friends and their undoubtedly vile name-calling?

Suddenly, I realise I’m squeezing Daenerys’ hand like she’s in danger of slipping away. Horrified — and horribly embarrassed — at my lack of control, I forcibly make myself relax my grip.

Calm. I need to be calm.

I really hope she didn’t notice my lapse.

“It’s alright, Sansa,” she tells me, like she thinks I need reassuring. “It was just words. Honestly, I’d heard worse from my darling brother. And anyway, Drogo was there to defend me.”

“Good,” I say firmly, only just managing to stop the word sounding like it emerges through gritted teeth. (Which, if I’m honest, it kind of does.)

“He broke up the Bloodriders over it,” she says. “He said anyone who couldn’t accept the new situation could just leave, and a lot of them did. Some joined other gangs, some started gangs of their own. Honestly, I didn’t really keep track of them after that. I was more interested in the ones that stayed.” A small smile curves her lips. “They were our true friends.”

“Do you see much of them these days?” I remember she said they were in town a few weeks ago…

“Not as much as I’d like,” she says with a sigh. “I usually see them when I’m over in France visiting my grandparents, and occasionally they come over here, but life has gotten in the way a little.”

“It has a habit of doing that,” I observe softly.

She inclines her head in agreement.

“Just so.” She sighs again, deeper this time, her eyes suddenly full of shadows. I know even before she speaks that she’s reached the final act of her story: the part where she loses the love of her life.

This is, after all, a tragedy.

“For the first time since my parents died, it felt like my life was going somewhere good.” She tears her gaze away from mine, as if she can’t bear to look at me. Or as if she doesn’t want me to see the pain in her eyes. “Naturally, that’s when everything started to fall apart…”


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further to my last note, there’s likely to be a bit of a gap between this chapter and the next while I focus on my Femslash Ex story. I’m hoping it won’t be more than two or three weeks, but there’s a chance it might be longer. I’ll update as soon as I can, though!

“It was Viserys who started it all,” Daenerys says, a bitter twist to her mouth. “I think he couldn’t stand the fact that I was finally happy. More than that, he couldn’t stand the fact that I was happy without him. That I didn’t need him any more.”

She stares into her now-empty mug as if her memories pool inside it. As if she can see the past playing out in front of her like a sad movie.

“What did he do?” I ask softly, as the pause lengthens and stretches.

“He waited until I was alone in the house, and then he came to tell me exactly what he thought of me.”

She seems calm; utterly, almost icily calm. But her hand twitches minutely in mine, and I know with sick certainty that she isn’t nearly so poised as she seems to be. And I also know something else.

“He hit you, didn’t he?” I almost whisper.

After a moment, she gives a single nod.

“Although, honestly, the words hurt more,” she says carelessly. Too carelessly, and it doesn’t fool me for a moment. “But this time wasn’t like the others.” Others? How many times did this happen? How many times did her so-called brother hurt her like this? “This time, I was worried about the baby.”

My gut clenches in sympathy, in dread.

“What happened?” I ask softly.

“Drogo came back early.” Her voice is just as quiet as mine, but the raw, ragged emotion in it makes it feel as loud as a scream. “He wanted to surprise me, I guess.” A strange kind of laugh escapes her throat; the kind of laugh that’s just on the edge of being a sob. “He certainly surprised Viserys. One minute, he was hitting his weak, pregnant sister; the next, Drogo was kicking seven shades of shit out of him.”

“Did he hurt him badly?”

I feel utterly conflicted right now. On the one hand: violence is bad. But on the other hand, Viserys was hitting *Daenerys*. If that doesn’t deserve violent retribution, I don’t know what does. But on the gripping hand, the person meting out this righteous punishment was someone who hurt her just as badly, albeit through ignorance rather than malice aforethought. (Even though I’m not sure ignorance is anywhere near a good enough reason for me to forgive him.)

But my inner turmoil isn’t important. What’s important is that this happened to Daenerys. I squeeze her hand again, but that doesn’t feel like nearly enough, somehow. Hardly believing my own daring, I set my empty mug down on the table — I can *just* reach from here, fortunately — and follow her lead from earlier, curling my arm lightly around my shoulders.

She freezes for a moment (have I made a dreadful mistake?) but then relaxes into my timid embrace.

I hope this is helping.

(I really hope she doesn’t mind.)

“He broke bones,” she whispers, sounding part horrified and part… something else. (Maybe part triumphant?) I can’t tell what it is. (No, I must be wrong. I must be.) “I think he came close to killing him. I thought… I wanted to tell Drogo to stop, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t. And then I realised I was bleeding.”

My breath hisses sharply through my teeth. The way she says that… There’s only one kind of bleeding she could be talking about. And that means…

“I managed to get Drogo’s attention.” She’s looking at me, but doesn’t seem to see me; doesn’t even react when I tighten my arm around her shoulders. “We called for an ambulance. For Viserys as well as for me. I insisted. I didn’t… Even after what he’d done, I didn’t want him to die. Not really.” She sounds like she’s willing me to believe her. (Or maybe she’s trying to convince herself.) “While we were waiting, I had Drogo make sure that he was still breathing. He didn’t want to, but he did it anyway. For me.”

She takes a deep, shuddering breath of her own.

“But the ambulance was taking so long, and I just kept *bleeding*. We were both getting pretty frantic, so we thought… I don’t even remember whose idea it was, but we decided to go on Drogo’s bike. We left the door open so the paramedics could get to Viserys and off we went.”

Without warning, tears start to spill from her eyes, cascading unheeded down her cheeks. I feel my own eyes start to prickle, and it’s hard to swallow around the lump in my throat.

“We were going too fast. I knew we were, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting to the hospital. Saving our *baby*.” She draws in a deep, shuddering breath. “But we were going too fast, and the road was wet, and there weren’t enough damn streetlights and… and… and…”

Her chest is heaving now, like she can’t get enough air. All I can do is hold her, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It doesn’t feel like anywhere near enough.

“”It’s alright,” I murmur desperately, uselessly. “You don’t have to tell me the rest. It’s alright.”

I don’t think she even hears me.

“I don’t know if Drogo didn’t see the curve, or if the brakes failed, or what happened. I just remember skidding, seeing the wall hurtling towards us, and then… nothing.”

Her grip on my hand is hard enough to hurt, but I don’t say anything. How can I? God knows I have precious little else to offer. How can I begrudge her this?

“The next thing I knew, I was waking up in hospital.” She practically whispers the words. If I wasn’t so close to her, I think I’d have trouble hearing her. “I’m still not really sure how long I was out for. But they told me… They said…” A shudder wracks her body, tears still cascading from her wide, unseeing eyes. “I lost the baby.”

Grief swells within me like a wave; grief for her loss. Her twin losses, because I know how this story ends now. I know it wasn’t just her baby — their baby — that was taken from her.

“Oh Daenerys,” I say, helplessly, inadequately. “I’m so sorry.”

“They also said that there had been… complications. Internal damage. They said… They told me… I can’t… I’ll never be able to have children. I… I… *Oh*.”

Her face just crumples, the — hopefully empty — mug tumbling from her hand to land on the carpet with a dull thud as she turns into my embrace, burying her face in my shoulder. I hold her while she cries, awkwardly rubbing her back in what I hope is a soothing manner, my own face suddenly wet with tears.

Lost child and lost husband. Widowed and made barren in one fell swoop.

Oh, my poor Daenerys.

Eventually, her sobs start to quieten, her shudders stilling. After one final, shivering sigh, her breathing returns to normal. I think she’s going to sit up again (to pull away from me in embarrassment, like I would), but she stays where she is for a little while longer, curled into my shoulder, just breathing.

I let my hand fall still, resting it lightly on her back, just below her shoulder blades.

I hope that’s okay. (I hope my touch isn’t an imposition. I couldn’t stand it if I did something that she didn’t want.)

Moments pass, then seconds, then minutes. Eventually, she starts to uncurl. I immediately let my arm fall away, releasing her. She doesn’t go far, though (doesn’t bolt from the mortification of breaking down in front of me, *on* me; of soaking my shoulder with her misery), just settles in next to me on the sofa, my other arm still around her shoulders in a loose embrace. (I wonder if I should move that, too, but I can’t seem to bring myself to do so. She doesn’t seem to mind, but that could mean that she just hasn’t registered its presence. I could ask, but bringing it to her attention might just make it awkward. No, as with so many things, it’s best just to say nothing.)

She sighs again, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

(Somehow, even after a crying jag like that, she still manages to retain her beauty. I think I’m in… awe.)

I self-consciously scrub at my face, hoping vainly to erase the blotchiness and red eyes and everything else. (Unlike her, I do not cry prettily.) I hope she doesn’t notice my lack of composure.

“I’m sorry for crying on you,” she says softly. An expression of annoyance crosses her face. “I don’t normally do this, you know.”

“It’s alright,” I tell her, although I’m not sure she believes me. “If you can’t cry on a friend’s shoulder, when can you? I’m here for you. Whatever you need.”

She starts to say something — some protest, perhaps; another caveat about the fact that she doesn’t normally do this kind of thing, doesn’t break down in tears over something that she’s been keeping locked up inside herself for so long — but in the end all that comes out is: “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. It’s hopefully inadequate, I know, but it’s the best I can do right now. I just… I don’t think I have the words.

Silence settles over us for a time, but then she stirs restlessly and sighs.

“Can I…? Do you want to hear the rest?”

Perplexed, I stare at her for a moment or two. There’s more? That wasn’t the end of it? A sense of something almost like dread fills me as I nod slowly.

“If you want to tell me,” I say, my voice sounding more hesitant, more uncertain, than I was intending.

Daenerys sighs again.

“As soon as I could struggle out of bed — which was much sooner than the doctors would have approved of if I’d actually bothered to ask them — I went to see Drogo.”

I can’t help the small, startled noise that emerges from my throat at that. She went to see Drogo? But wasn’t he…? Didn’t he…? Does she mean that she went to see his body?

“He was still alive,” she says, like she knows exactly what’s going through my head. “Comatose, bruised and broken and hooked up to more machines than I could count, but alive. And I was so, so relieved. Because where there’s life there’s hope, right? And if he was alive, then my world wasn’t empty. If he was alive…” Her breathing grows ragged, her voice hoarse and cracked as she continues speaking. “But it wasn’t that simple. Of course it wasn’t.”

Why ‘of course’? I want to ask, but don’t. Why does she say that like the worst was inevitable? But I can’t seem to find the right words, so all I can do is hold her tight, telling her without words that I’m here for her. That she isn’t alone.

I hope she understands.

“The doctors told me… I made them explain it, even though they kept insisting that I needed to rest. I was… It turned out I could be stubborn if I had to be. I dug my heels in until they decided it was easier just to tell me. They said…” She takes a deep, shuddering breath. “They said that Drogo had no measurable brain activity. That the machines were the only thing keeping him alive. Th- That all they were doing was prolonging the inevitable.”

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper around the lump in my throat, almost in tears myself at the sheer unfairness of it all. I can’t help thinking it would have been easier if Drogo had just been killed outright. For him to linger like that, making Daenerys hope… and then for that hope to be proved false… It just seems so cruel.

She swallows audibly.

“The thing is,” she says, then stops and takes a couple of deep breaths. “The thing is,” she tries again. “That as Drogo’s wife, I was officially his next of kin. So that meant it was up to me to decide whether… whether to… to…”

Fresh horror grips me body and soul as she tries and fails to finish that sentence, my mind already putting two and two together and coming up with something in the region of four. I tighten my arm around her shoulders as if I can keep the utter tragedy of it all at bay, but of course it’s far, far too late for that. No matter how vivid, how here-and-now it might feel as she tells her story — relives it right in front of me — it was all over long ago. All I can do is try to offer what little comfort I can, no matter how pitiful that might seem.

I only wish I could do more.

“I spent days practically camped out in his room, looking for any sign that he was still in there,” she whispers. “I talked to him until my voice gave out, held his hand around the wires and tubes, studied every tiny twitch or flicker of an eyelid in the hope that it might be a sign, a reaction; *something* to tell me I shouldn’t give up hope. But in the end, I just couldn’t delude myself any more.” Her breath hisses through her teeth, and once more my shoulder grows damp with her tears. “My Drogo was gone. This… This *thing* in the bed, hooked up to all the machines — it wasn’t him. It was just an empty shell of meat and bone. The doctors were right.”

I squeeze her hand. She turns to face me, and the raw pain in her eyes hits me like a physical blow. To my great surprise, her voice remains steady, if soft, as she tells me what I already know. Maybe too steady. It’s flat and inflectionless, like an automaton. If I couldn’t see her face, I’d think she was feeling nothing at all. But I can, and I know that to describe her that way would be the opposite of truth. If anything, she feels too much; maybe too much for her voice to hold without cracking under the strain.

Maybe keeping her tone so flat, so blank, is the only way she can get the words out at all. And I think… I’d tell her to stop, that she doesn’t have to tell me any more, that I already know, but I think she needs to say this. I think she needs me to hear it.

So I just silently hold her, and listen.

“I told them to switch off the machines.”

The words fall starkly into a room that seems to be holding its breath. I find myself trying to keep my own breath silent, almost afraid of disturbing the tension pooling thick and heavy in the air.

“I told them to let him go.”

She swallows hard, licking her lips as if they’re too cracked and dry for her to speak the next words, hesitating as if the third time really is the charm, as if they’re the final part of the spell that makes all this real. Like maybe it didn’t happen if she doesn’t say the words.

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted magic to be real so much in my life.

But it isn’t. It isn’t, and so she says the words, and though her tone remains flat and level, my mind fills in the blanks of what she’s feeling from the expression on her face, and the one that stands out above all the others — above the pain and the sorrow and the infinite sense of loss — is guilt.

“I told them… I told them to let him die.”

Her face crumples. *She* crumples, falling into my embrace like a stone into water. I catch her (I’ll always catch her) and keep her safe (I’ll be her armour, like she was mine), holding her while she cries like her heart is breaking all over again.

(I think my heart breaks with her.)

It feels like she cries for a long time. I don’t even know how long it is, but I’ll stay here for as long as she needs me; holding her, whispering words of comfort in her ear. (Like there are any words for this. But I whisper them anyway, trying to anchor with my voice as well as my body. With everything that I am.)

Eventually, however, her shuddering eases, body-wracking sobs fading into stillness and silence. She doesn’t sit up again, not yet, but in a voice scraped bloody and raw by sorrow she says:

“To this day, I still don’t know if I did the right thing. If I should have looked harder, *tried* harder to get through to him. If I-”

“Daenerys, no,” I say, gently but firmly, recognising the sound of someone spiralling when I hear it. (No matter how strange, how dislocating it feels to recognise it in someone who isn’t me. To recognise it in *her*.)

“You can’t second-guess yourself like that,” I continue, keeping my tone soft and soothing; hoping it doesn’t sound like I’m criticising or judging her. (Nothing could be further from the truth.) “You did what you thought was right, based on the information you had. Didn’t you?”

For a moment, I don’t think she’s going to answer, too trapped in the grip of past events, present guilt, but then she stirs against me, scrubbing at her eyes before sitting up.

“I thought I did,” she says, and the lost note in her voice breaks my heart all over again. “But what if I was wrong? What if I was just being selfish? Or-“

“You weren’t,” I interject firmly.

“How can you know that?” she asks, no, *demands*; suddenly sounding more like herself — more like I expect her to be. “You weren’t there.”

“No, but I know you. And I can see how much this is eating away at you. I firmly believe that you did what you thought was best for Drogo. Despite how it broke your heart to let him go. No,” because her expression wavers again, and I couldn’t stand to put one more iota of doubt in her mind. “To admit to yourself that he was already gone.”

“But-“ she starts, and I cut her off.

(I, Sansa Stark — the timid, the cowardly, the *mouse* — cut Daenerys Targaeryen — the strong, the brave, the Dragon — off mid-sentence. If I wasn’t so focused on helping her right now, I think I might just reel in shock.)

“Listen to me,” I say, my words sounding like a command even to my own ears. And, much to my surprise (even though a part of me cringes at my daring), she does. (Although maybe I shouldn’t be, surprised, not really. She listens to me most timid whisper, after all. Why should she stop listening just because I’ve learned how to assert myself?)

“You have to trust yourself,” I continue, as if I can will her to believe me. To believe in herself. “You loved Drogo. He was your sun and stars.” (There’s that pang again, the strange hollow ache somewhere in the region of my heart, but I know I speak the truth. No matter how much I can’t shake the feeling that he didn’t deserve her love, that he wasn’t worthy of it. But that’s a thought I’ll be taking to my grave.) “You would never have done anything to hurt him. Would you?”

“No, of course not,” is her immediate response, but then her brows draw together in a frown. A note of uncertainty threads through her voice as she adds: “But what if-“

“No,” I say, cutting her off again. “No second-guessing. You did what you thought was best for the man you loved. *That’s* the only thing that matters.”

She studies my face as if she’s searching for something, but I don’t know if she finds is. Dropping her gaze, she picks at that loose thread in her sleeve and lets the silence stretch. Perhaps she’s turning my words over in her mind. Perhaps she’s just figuring out the best way to tell me to get lost.

It feels like my heart is in my mouth as I wait for her to respond.

“You’re right,” she murmurs, speaking so quietly I have to strain my ears to catch them. “You’re right,” she says again, more forcefully.

She lifts her gaze to mine once more, and there’s something like determination in the set of her eyes, in the line of her jaw. It’s almost a shock to realise that it’s been absent all this time. It’s always seemed like so much a part of her, I’m surprised I could recognise her without it; with her strength and certainty turned to sorrow and self-doubt. Something flutters inside me, some unnamed emotion that’s there and gone again before I can pin it down. Pride, maybe? I am proud of her, for not only surviving her past but emerging all the stronger for it, like a blade tempered by fire.

Everything I learn about her just makes me admire her more.

(And if her doubt comes back, as doubt so often does, creeping back in the still, quiet moments? Well then. I’ll just have to tell her again. And again, and again. As many times as it takes until it sticks.)

“The doctors told me he was gone,” she says. “They ran all sorts of tests, and they were sure. I wanted so badly for them to be wrong, but the longer I stayed with him — the more I looked for a sign — the more I came to believe that they were right. And once I accepted that…” She sighs deeply. “There was nothing I could do but let him go.”

There’s sadness in her eyes, of course, and loss, and the thousand and one other emotions I’d expect to see. But there’s also something that looks a lot like acceptance. Not peace, exactly, but the absence — or, at least, the diminishment — of self-loathing.

I think the storm has passed, at least for now. Daenerys has emerged from the other side, not unscathed, but still unbroken.

I think she’s going to be alright.

“His parents didn’t agree,” she says, almost off-handedly. “They all-but accused me of murdering him. But they couldn’t be bothered to see him when he was alive — didn’t even so much check that he *was* still alive after they kicked him out to fend for himself — so why should they have a say in his death?”

I’m not sure she really wants an answer to that question. I don’t know what to say in any case, so I redirect with a question of my own.

“What happened to your brother?” I ask.

Daenerys grimaces.

“He survived,” she says flatly. “Albeit with a few scars to show for it. And practically the instant he woke up, he tried to press charges against Drogo. Against both of us, actually.”

I frown. “How would that even work?” How can you prosecute a dead man? I suppose Daenerys could still be charged, maybe as an accessory or something, but then what about what Viserys did to *her*? I doubt it would have gone well for him if everyone knew he how he beat his pregnant sister.

“Luckily, I never had to find out. I managed to persuade him that it was a can of worms he did not want to open.” She smiles thinly, the expression closer to a snarl than a sign of joy. “Apparently I was sufficiently convincing.”

I blink at her for a moment or two, waiting for her to continue, but that seems to be the end of it. Questions bubble up inside me, and I dither for a moment or two more before settling on one in particular.

“So what happened next?”

“Next?” She shrugs. “I buried my husband and tried to get on with my life.”

“But what about… With Viserys, I mean…” My tongue ties itself in knots, and I just can’t get the words out. I can’t bring myself to ask if her brother got away with what he’d done. With tormenting her all those years. With beating her, with bringing about the chain of events that led to her losing both Drogo and her baby.

After all of that, did he just get off scott-free?

She looks down. “I didn’t press charges against *him*, if that’s what you’re asking,” she says quietly. “Not because I thought he’d suffered enough, or any rubbish like that. Even though he certainly was suffering after the beating Drogo gave him. Hell, he might well still be suffering for all I know.” Am I imagining the vicious twist of her lips as she says that last sentence? Could there really be something ugly in her voice as she adds: “He certainly wasn’t so handsome any more, that’s for sure.”

She pauses, takes a breath, and returns both expression and tone back to normal again — if I didn’t imagine those changes in the first place — as she continues.

(I probably did imagine them.)

“I just wanted it to be over and done with,” she says, simply. “I couldn’t stand the thought of airing all the dirty laundry of my history with Viserys out in public. I just wanted to put it behind me. So I said I wouldn’t bring him to justice for his actions as long as he left me the hell alone.”

“And he agreed to that?” I prompt, when she grinds to a halt.

“He did,” she says, nodding slowly. “And we’ve done our level best to avoid each other ever since. I don’t even know where he’s living these days, or what he’s doing with his life. Which is just the way I like it. But…” Her mouth tightens, her lips forming a tense, angry line. “But sometimes, rarely, he’ll send me an e-mail or a message or something. Completely out of the blue. I usually just ignore them, but at this time of year…” Her words trail off into a soft sigh, her whole body slumping wearily as if the tension leaves her along with her breath. “Receiving one of his *delightful* little missives is pretty much guaranteed to ruin my day.”

“I’m sorry,” I say softly. Sorry that she has such a terrible brother. Sorry that she lost her parents, her husband and her child. Sorry she had to go through such horrible experiences. Just… sorry.

She smiles and squeezes my hand.

“Thank you,” she says. “And thank you for listening. For *understanding*. I really appreciate it.”

The smile she gives me is so open, so heartfelt, that it actually makes me feel a little uncomfortable. I’m just not used to being the focus of either such gratitude or such intensity. (I think I could get used to it.) It feels… strange.

I smile back.

“You’re…” No, I can’t say ‘you’re welcome’ again, not for the umpteenth time this conversation alone. Something else, something else… “You’re my friend,” I say instead, willing her to see how much that means to me. “I care about you. It’s that simple.”

She jerks her eyes away from mine as if my own sincerity — my own intensity — makes her feel uncomfortable in turn.

“Well, now you know why I’m such a mess at the moment,” she says matter-of-factly.

“You’re not a mess!” I blurt out, then wilt a little as she turns the full force of her arched eyebrow on me. “I would never call you a mess,” I say, backtracking only a little. “But I could tell something was wrong.” Finding my backbone, I sit up straight and counter her arched eyebrow with my narrowed eyes. “No matter how much you tried to deny it.”

“Guilty,” she says, laughing a little. “I don’t admit weakness easily, you know. I have been known to be pretty damn stubborn about it on occasion. You should consider yourself honoured.”

“Oh, I do,” I tell her, aiming for a flippant tone but ending up just the wrong side of sincere for either of us to feel entirely at ease.

Her smile twists a little, crossing the border of wry and edging almost all the way over into bitterness.

“If Doreah could see us now, I think she might just keel over from the shock of it.”

“Pardon?” I say, blankly, wondering if I’ve missed something somewhere.

“She doesn’t think I’m capable of letting someone in,” Daenerys tells me, as if she’s confiding some amusing secret or titbit of gossip.

I don’t… I don’t think it’s particularly funny.

I’m not sure Daenerys does either.

“Did she say that?” I ask, cautiously.

She shrugs. “Among other things. Apparently I think I’m ‘Little Miss Perfect’ and I sit there upon my ‘high horse,’ looking down on the ‘lowly mortals’.” I could swear her whole way of speaking changes on the quotes, so it’s almost like Doreah herself is here in the room with us. (I’m so glad she’s not here right now.) “And *apparently*,” she continues. “I’m so ‘blinded’ by my ‘smug arrogance’ I can’t tell that no one could possibly live up to my ‘ridiculous standards,’ not even me.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh.

“It seems Doreah had quite a lot to say.”

“Well, she’s wrong,” I say stoutly, pushing aside the little voice in the back of my mind that’s telling me it’s a bad idea to butt into a fight between exes; that no good can possibly come from this. (Even though I kind of think that voice is right.) I might not know all the details of what went on between the two of them — and, honestly, I’m not sure I *want* to know, unless Daenerys needs to talk about it — but there is one thing I can state with certainty. “You don’t look down on me.”

And, as far as I can recall, she never has. (Well, maybe over how I handled the whole Jeyne thing, just a little, but I’m not sure that really counts.)

Daenerys looks at me, her expression inscrutable. She opens her mouth as if to speak, then hesitates and closes it again. She frowns, takes a breath and tries again.

“Let’s not talk about Doreah any more, alright?”

“Alright,” I echo, acquiescing with some relief. I search my mind for other, safer topics of conversation, but come up blank. “What do you want to talk about?”

“Maybe there’s been enough talking for the moment.” She looks thoughtfully at me for a moment, and then flashes me a brilliant smile. “Do we have time for a film before you have to leave for your shift?”

Oh, right! My shift. I think I’d actually forgotten about it. I disentangle my hand from hers so I can check my watch.

“We should just about have time, yes,” I say cautiously. “As long as it’s not too long.” Like, Lord of the Rings extended editions long, or anything on that scale. But she nods, her smile broadening.

“Good. Then I have an idea. I think you might like this…”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay, folks. I'm afraid there may also be a short delay between this chapter and the next, as I'm going to be in the US for a games convention next week.

I’m not *quite* late for my shift, but it’s a close run thing. The only reason I’m not is that I gave in and took the bus, rather than walking. It wasn’t actually the film itself — if I’d set off as soon as it finished, I would have got here in plenty of time, even walking. The problem was that we got distracted by discussing it afterwards, and time just flew by.

Still, I’m not actually late, so I can’t really bring myself to mind all that much. (I’m not sure I’d mind even if I had been late. Well, I would’ve *minded*; of course I would. Being late is terribly rude, and I’m too much my mother’s daughter not to mind about that sort of thing. But I think I *might* have thought that it was worth being late for. Maybe. It’s a moot point, anyway.)

“I told you I’d get you here on time,” Daenerys says from beside me.

I glance over at her as we head towards Hot Coffee, marvelling at the picture of calm self-assurance she presents. To look at her, you’d never know that she was sobbing on my shoulder a mere few hours ago. It’s amazing what a difference a change of clothes and a little make-up can make. And willpower, of course. I suspect that’s a large part of what’s keeping her mask in place right now. I mean, talking to me did seem to make her feel better, but it couldn’t just erase all the pain of those horrible memories. How could it? So she may be ‘better’, but she’s not completely, one hundred per cent *fine*.

Although I’m not sure anyone but me would be able to tell that.

(Not that I’m particularly skilled at reading people or anything but, well, I know her. Even more so now she’s shared some of her secrets with me. Anyway, it doesn’t require any great insight to know that someone doesn’t recover so completely from being that upset in so short a time.)

“You did,” I acknowledge belatedly, dragging myself from my thoughts to give her a smile. “Although,” I continue, my tone lightly teasing. “No offence, but I’d still have taken been late over riding pillion on your bike.”

She laughs. “Well, I wasn’t being *entirely* serious with that offer. Not unless you get a set of your own cycle leathers, anyway. Safety first!” Her smile dims a little, and I wince inside at my gaucheness. But she did make the offer… “Anyway,” she continues, dialling up the wattage again. “I thought you liked that test ride.”

“I did,” I say, still half-shocked that I can not only say that but actually *mean* it. “But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t terrifying. I’m definitely not ready for anything other than quiet side-streets just yet.”

I can only describe the look she gives me then as ‘complicated.’ There are layers there; layers within layers. Surprise, definitely. Maybe… thoughtful consideration? And in her eyes, something warm…

“So does that mean you’re willing to give it another go?”

I blink, turning the question over in my mind.

“Yes,” I say, and even I can hear the slightly startled note in that single word. “I suppose I am.”

“Well then,” she says, sounding pleased. “We’ll start your lessons in the new year.”

“Lessons?” I repeat, and her smile turns distinctly mischievous.

“Yes,” she says brightly. “Why do this half-way? What’s the point in only learning how to be a passenger?”

She wants to teach me to… drive? Pilot? Ride? Ride. She wants to teach me to ride a motorcycle. Her motorcycle. I… genuinely don’t know how I feel about that. Terrified, I guess? I mean, my heart’s beating faster, and I can’t quite get my breath, and there’s a strange twisting feeling in my chest. If that’s not terror, what else could it be? And yet…

And yet.

“Okay,” I say, but the word emerges as little more than a breathy whisper. I can barely even hear myself, so I clear my throat and try again. “Okay,” I say, still a little wobbly, but less so than I would have expected.

Daenerys’ answering smile could light up the whole world.

Yep. Definitely terrified. Utterly, absolutely, completely terrified.

But also… happy? Excited? Strangely… anticipatory?

(And warmed through and through, as if she really is the sun to my moon.)

I make a mental note to apply for my provisional driving license at the earliest opportunity.

“Great,” she says, still smiling, and I smile helplessly back.

It’s almost a shock to realise that we’re standing at the door to the coffee shop. While I’m trying to get my thoughts in gear, Daenerys reaches out and opens it.

“After you,” she says.

“Thanks, but I have to go round the back,” I say regretfully. “Mr Baelish is in today, and he doesn’t like it when we come in through the front. Plus, I have to get changed.” I can’t help grimacing.

“You could have gotten changed at my place,” Daenerys says. “I should have suggested it.”

I open my mouth to explain about the seasonal uniform, and how I wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it outside Hot Coffee — not to mention the fact that I’d likely freeze to death — but the words stick in my throat. In the end, all I say is:

“It’s okay. It won’t take me long.” She’ll find out soon enough, anyway. Assuming she doesn’t already know. “I’ll see you inside.”

* * * * *

Despite my reluctance, knowing that Daenerys is out there waiting for me makes me hurry through getting changed. This mainly consists of stripping off the skirt and jumper I put on over my ridiculously tiny shorts and blouse, putting on the awkward belt, and attempting to tie on that bloody stupid neckerchief-thing without choking myself. I force myself to quickly check the finished result in the mirror, mainly to make sure that nothing’s popped open. Not that this outfit could really get much more indecent. I suppress a shudder at the the garishly bright colours, turning away from the mirror with some relief.

Right.

Once more unto the breach, then.

I tie on my apron like I’m donning armour (oh, if only!) and head out into the coffee shop.

My first impression is one of utter chaos. The place is utterly rammed, some people even standing around with mugs in their hands, waiting to pounce on any available seat. I spot Daenerys in the queue, but I don’t think she sees me. I think she’s checking her phone. The queue itself stretches almost all the way to the door, snaking between tables and patrons.

Wow.

I don’t think it’s ever been this packed. No wonder Mr Baelish wanted as many of us on duty as possible.

Part of me whimpers a little at the thought of so many pairs of eyes on me. I try to console myself with the thought that none of them are really likely to care all that much. Most people don’t seem to have the same modesty issues I do. And, anyway, there are so many other under-dressed women around for them to notice, all of them way more attractive than me. I’m sure I’ll just fade into the background next to them.

Actually, that’s a good point. There are an awful lot of good-looking girls working here. I wonder if… No; he couldn’t have. Could he? I mean, surely that’s not even legal. Not unless the job involves modelling or something. I’m probably just being paranoid.

Anyway, Mr Baelish *can’t* just have chosen baristas based on looks. I mean, he chose me.

(Although several people have said that they think I’m… pretty. Unless they’re just being polite. But *Daenerys* said it, and I don’t doubt that she means it, so…)

Anyway, it doesn’t matter right now. I have work to do!

Ygritte and Asha are manning the tills and Missandei is bussing tables. I join a very harried-looking Shae at the coffee machine. She gives me a quick, somewhat distracted smile.

“Can you please take Asha’s orders?” are the first words she says to me.

“Of course,” I reply.

We work in silence, the sheer volume of orders requiring us to have to have our full attention on the task at hand. Luckily, most of the drinks are straightforward enough. (Although I am keeping half an eye out for a complicated concoction of syrups accompanied by specific pouring instructions that can only have been requested by one person in particular.) The queue seems to be moving at a reasonable clip, but it is very long. There are are quite a few orders to go before Daenerys reaches the tills.

“Medium cappuccino for Mike,” I call out, setting the drink on the counter. Someone — ‘Mike,’ presumably — comes up to take the drink.

“Thanks,” he says.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, already heading back to my workstation.

“Hey, wait!”

I freeze. Is there something wrong? Did I make a mistake with the order? I turn back to the customer.

“Yes?” I say, sounding as worried as I feel. “Is something wrong with your coffee?”

“Yes,” he says, nodding vigorously. “Yes, there is.”

I wait a moment, but he doesn’t show any signs of elaborating. He just looks at me with a weird kind of smirk on his face, like he’s expecting something. Oh, I don’t have time for this! Sighing inwardly, I ask the question he so-obviously wants me to ask.

“What seems to be the trouble?” I try to sound pleasant, even though I feel like gritting my teeth. “I’m sorry if it’s not up to standard. I can make you another one if you like.”

“Oh, the coffee’s fine,” he says, and it’s a *very* good job he continues talking right away. If there was enough of a pause for me to get a word in, I would be sorely tempted to say something the both of us would regret. Like: if the coffee is fine, what on earth is he doing wasting my time? Especially when we’re so darn busy! (Even the little voice in the back of my mind that would normally be babbling apologies by now is mostly just peeved. That’s… unusual.) Anyway… “But I didn’t get a smile!”

I just look at him, completely gone out.

He… what?

No, I really don’t have time for this.

I scrape up something that I hope counts as sufficiently smile-like (even though there’s a part of me that feels more like snarling).

“I’m glad you’re happy with your coffee. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I’m very busy…”

I’m starting to turn away almost before I’ve finished speaking, hoping I haven’t fallen too far behind with the ever-increasing stack of orders. I think Mike says something else, but I pretend I don’t hear him. Maybe it’s a little rude of me, but for once I barely feel so much as a pang of guilt. I really don’t have time to stand around chatting at the moment. (And, honestly, if I did, I’d rather spend that time talking to Daenerys than to some random guy who tries to get my attention by telling me my coffee’s bad when it isn’t.)

In any event, the interruption is soon driven out of my mind as I concentrate on working through the orders at something like a reasonable pace. I fancy I’m not doing a bad job of keeping up, settling into a rhythm that means I can have the next drink on the go as I hand previous one out. Rinse and repeat.

It’s actually a little hypnotic.

I reach up to pull the next order off the board, startled a little out of my semi-daze at the sheer unlikeliness of the syrup combinations. Unless I miss my guess… Sure enough, I glance up to see Daenerys giving me the *strangest* look as she makes her way around to the collection side of the counter. It’s kind of… startled? Awkward? Embarrassed?

Oh god. The Christmas uniform! I’ve been so busy I think I’d actually forgotten I was wearing it, but now I’ve remembered it’s difficult to notice anything else. She must be *so* embarrassed for me. Heaven knows I’m embarrassed enough for myself. But why is she looking so startled *now*? She must have noticed Ygritte at least. Then again, Asha is wearing the normal uniform, Shae’s been stuck behind the coffee machine and Missandei’s hidden somewhere in the crowd. Maybe she thought it was just Ygritte being Ygritte. Maybe she didn’t realise I’d be (barely) wearing it too…

I bet she thinks I look *awful*.

She seems to shake herself then, and any trace of awkwardness is gone as if it never even existed, replaced by a smile I find myself returning, helplessly, despite my discomfort. I try to push away the sudden bout of self-consciousness, to regain my previous state of calm efficiency as I retrieve everything I need for Daenerys’ order.

Let’s see: white chocolate, peppermint, cinnamon, vanilla, whipped cream…

“That’s better.” My view of Daenerys is abruptly eclipsed by Mike, who pushes in front of her without so much as a by your leave. “You should smile more often. It makes you look really pretty.”

“Um, thanks,” I mutter, not knowing what else to say. I look down at what I’m doing, hoping he’ll take the hint and leave me to it, but not before I see the glare that Daenerys levels at the back of his head.

Wow.

That’s really quite impressive. I’m almost surprised his skin doesn’t blister under the force of it, but he remains happily oblivious. I try to keep my amusement from showing on my face. It might give the wrong idea. Especially since he’s still loitering there by the counter, like he’s waiting for something. Surely he hasn’t finished his cappuccino already? It all becomes clear when Asha strides past me to deposit a plate on the counter, calling out:

“Ham and mushroom panini for Mike.”

I half-wonder (half-hope) he’s going to complain about *her* lack of smile, but he collects his food without any more than a muttered: “Thanks.” I… think that’s probably for the best. (I guess he possesses a survival instinct and at least some rudimentary social awareness. Okay, maybe that last part is a little mean-spirited of me.) Thankfully, he heads back to his seat now, but not without exhorting me to: “Keep smiling, Cutie.”

Ugh.

But maybe I’m being unfair. Maybe he’s trying to be nice, and is just a little awkward about it. In that case, it’s probably a little unreasonable to feel irritated with him. Anyway, it’s a moot point now.

I quickly finish up Daenerys’ coffee concoction and hand it to her.

“One Snow Bomb,” I tell her, smiling.

Yes, unlike Mike, her drink does come with a smile. But that’s because she’s my friend — smiling just comes naturally when I see her. It’s not something I have to actively think about. I usually do try to smile at all the customers, as per the shop policy, but when the place frantic like this, it just seems like too much effort. Oh well.

Daenerys laughs.

“I do like the names you come up with for my orders,” she says.

“I’m glad.” I really wish I could chat to her a bit, but… “I’m afraid I have to get back to this,” I tell her, apologetically.

“Of course,” she says, cheerfully enough that I’m not in the slightest bit worried that she thinks I’m being rude. “I’ll try to find somewhere to perch.”

My imagination immediately paints a picture of a glittering silver dragon perching upon a mountain-top. Somewhat improbably, it has a coffee mug clutched delicately in its claws.

I… think my mind can be a strange place, sometimes. But the image amuses me as I make drink after drink after drink. Maybe I’ll write a story about it. A short, silly story about a coffee-drinking dragon. Instead of gold, it could curl up on a pile of beans, and instead of a princesses it kidnaps a barista who comes to steal some of the legendary beans… Okay, maybe that’s getting a little too silly. Anyway, I should probably try to finish the story I’m working on at the moment before starting something new. Even if I do seem to have stalled on it for the time being.

Although… Taking a little break from it could help me recover my inspiration. I guess I could give it a go and see how it goes. Wait a minute. That gives me an idea…

The crowd does start to thin out a little after a while, helped by the fact that quite a few customers are ordering their drinks to go. I notice that Daenerys manages to snag herself a seat at some point, although she does end up sharing a table with a trio of students who actually seem to be trying to do some work. Why they’d choose Hot Coffee over a library or one of their homes, I really have no idea. The atmosphere in here tonight is really not at all conducive to studying, I would have thought. Although they seem to be spending more time arguing heatedly than actually working.

Oh well. Each to their own.

There’s a brief lull while five or so people try to order as a group, managing to confuse themselves thoroughly in the process. Asha seems decidedly unimpressed with their shenanigans. Knowing that this is only the calm before the storm, I take advantage of the respite to stretch, rub my aching neck and remind myself that I really should try to remember not to hunch over my workstation. I tell myself that every time, and every time I find myself doing the exact same thing. My posture is fine when I’m sitting, but whenever I stand for any length of time, I always end up hunching over.

(Too many years trying to make myself smaller than I am. Too much time trying to shrink away from the world. Old habits can be hard to break, but I am trying.)

“You’re not smiling again.” I actually jump a little at the sound of Mike’s voice, a little closer than I was expecting. He’s leaning on the counter, watching me stretch. I immediately stop what I’m doing, far too self-conscious to continue under his scrutiny. Part of me wants to apologise for not smiling. I smother it into silence. “Don’t stop on my account,” he continues, and he *is* smiling, in a way that makes me profoundly uncomfortable, as he looks me up and down. “I was enjoying the view.”

“Um…” I cross my arms in front of my chest, not having the first clue what to say. In the end, I ignore his words in favour of a neutral: “Are you waiting for a drink?”

I glance over at Shae, but she’s busy filling what seems to be a small forest of cups. I think about offering to help, but she seems to have everything under control. Anyway, by the looks of things, I’m going to have my own forest of cups to fill shortly.

“No. I just thought I’d come and say hello, since you don’t seem to be doing anything right now.”

“Oh.” My hands itch to start tidying or something; anything to look busy. But I don’t want to be rude. “Um, hello.”

Ingrained habit gives me the urge to dredge up a polite smile, but without consciously meaning to, I find myself resisting. (I find myself resenting his repeated exhortations to smile. How is the expression on my face any concern of his? I’m not some sort of… of performing monkey! But I’m probably overreacting.) I glance over at the gaggle of people at Asha’s till, noting that she’s actually starting to write something down on the order pad. I guess they must finally have made up their minds. (I can’t help feeling relieved that I’m about to have an obvious excuse for breaking off this awkward interaction with Mike.)

“Hey, don’t look away. I thought we were having a conversation.”

Part of me wants to cringe at the sudden irritation in his voice. (Part of me bristles. I feel a sudden, ridiculous urge to draw myself up to my full height and look down at him.) I shrug instead.

“I’m afraid it looks like I’m about to have another batch of orders to deal with,” I tell him, barely even able to sound like I regret it.

“Then I guess we’d better make the most of the time we have,” he says, his smile widening. He pauses, like he’s expecting me to say something, but I just look at him. I’m peripherally aware that Daenerys is getting to her feet; that Shae is glancing over at us. “I really love that Christmas uniform,” he says after a moment, his gaze sliding over me again. “I think you should wear it all year round.”

“God, I hope not,” I blurt out, then blush at my unprofessionalism. “I mean,” I correct myself. “I much prefer our normal uniform.”

“Are you kidding? This one’s much better! And it certainly looks great on *you*.” He looks thoroughly pleased with himself, meeting my eyes with an intensity that makes me want to flee for the back room. My stomach twists with nervous tension, and I just don’t know what he *wants* from me. Can’t he see I’m not interested in having a conversation with him? (Even if he’s genuinely trying to be nice right now, who’s to say he won’t turn nasty if I ask him to leave me alone?) Make him go away. Please, please make him go away. But no matter how fervent my wishing, he remains exactly where he is. And his smile’s fading now, starting to become more of a frown. “Well? I just paid you a compliment. Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

“Thanks,” I mutter. I don’t feel complimented. I feel like livestock being appraised. That feeling helps me stick to my resolution not to smile.

“You’re welcome!” he says, once more back to cheer. “Now, how about that smile?”

Asha is ringing up her orders now, glancing over here with a frown. Shae and Ygritte also seem to be paying attention. Daenerys is threading her way through the crowd towards me, her expression best described as determined. The sight of them grounds me, the unsettled roiling of my stomach easing a little, although it doesn’t subside completely.

“I’m afraid I have to get back to work,” I tell him, politely. (But still unsmiling.) “Excuse me.” I start to turn away, but Mike leans over the counter and actually grabs hold of my wrist.

“Hey! I thought we were having a conversation here.”

I freeze.

It’s only a loose grip, not tight or hurting or anything (not like *him*), but it’s still his hand. On me. Uninvited.

And I’m terrified.

No, not terrified. Well. Yes, terrified, but not just that. The other thing.

*Livid.*

How *dare* he?

Before I realise I’m going to do it, I find myself pulling my wrist from his grasp and drawing myself up to my full height. I’m actually taller than him, I’m surprised to realise, and for once I’m actually glad of that fact, actively trying to think ‘looming’ thoughts as I look down my nose at him.

“Please don’t do that,” I say flatly, my tone turning it into an order, despite the ‘please.’ “As I said, I really do need to get back to work now. It’s very busy in here, as you can see. I hope the food and drink is to your satisfaction.”

He just stares at me, shocked and silent. Apparently he wasn’t expecting *that*. (For that matter, neither was I. Oh my god. What am I doing? How can I be so rude to a customer? Maybe I should… No. I am *not* apologising to him. *I’m* not the one in the wrong here.) I start to turn away again, hoping that’s be the end of it. Hoping that he’s got the message. Hoping that he’ll now leave me alone like I asked.

Hoping for that, but not really expecting it.

“There’s no need to be such a bitch about it!”

Well, there’s a shock.

(“Stupid bitch!” “Frigid bitch!” “Ugly bitch” “…bitch…” “…bitch…” “…bitch…” It never occurred to me until now just how unimaginative *his* insults really were. I mean, repeating the same word over and over again is just *lazy*.)

“There’s no call for that kind of language,” I say stiffly, wondering what I’m doing continuing to interact with him. I should just ignore him. It’s just a word. I’ve been called worse; much worse. I should… I should…

(I want to say I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it, I’ll do better, I’ll be good. I want to run away and hide. I want to *hit* him.)

He’s flat-out glaring at me now, his face a mask of fury. I start to wonder if he’s actually going to stop at words, but that’s probably just an overreaction. Surely he’s not going to do anything… physical. Not here, not in front of everyone. Not with my friends around. (But what about later, when I’m on my own? He knows where I work…)

“Oh, *I’m* sorry,” he says, and I feel a rush of relief that he’s going for sarcasm rather than a slap. “I take it back. You’re not a bitch. You’re a *cunt*!”

A haze descends over my vision, my pulse thundering in my ears so that I can barely even hear myself when I say:

“Out.”

It doesn’t even sound like me. It sounds like someone fierce and strong-willed; someone used to standing up for herself. Someone used to giving orders and having them obeyed. (I like the way it sounds.)

“What?” he says, laughing like what I’m hearing and what he’s hearing are two completely different things.

(Part of me wants to take it back, say it was nothing. Part of me wants to break a mug over his stupid smirking face.)

“I said: get out.” Why is he even still standing there? I mean: really? “Exit the premises. Now. You’re not welcome here.”

“Nice try,” he sneers. “But you can’t kick me out for trying to talk to you. I’m a paying customer!”

“You *were* a paying customer,” I correct him. “Now, you’re being a nuisance. I am well within my rights to ask you to leave, so that’s what I’m doing.”

He folds his arms, looking mutinous.

“That time of the month, is it?” he says. “Or do you just need to get laid?”

I can’t breathe for a moment, choking on the sheer mass of furious words trying to force their way through my lips. In lieu of speaking, I come out from behind the counter and stride right up to him, only stopping when we’re practically toe to toe. He takes a step backwards — involuntarily, I think — and then glowers up at me. He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he can say a word.

“It’s time for you to leave now,” I tell him. “Just get your things and go, or I will be forced to escalate this.”

“What does that even mean?” His tone is jeering, mocking, but he seems rattled. Rattled or not, though, he doesn’t show any sign of backing down. And… he actually has a point. What can I do? I’m hardly going to pick him up and drag him out bodily, even if I could, which I doubt. I could tell Mr Baelish, I suppose, but I have the horrible feeling he’d tell me to apologise and make the man a free drink. Which… no. I am *not* apologising. Not this time.

Mike’s sneer broadens when I don’t answer right away, taking on an edge of smug triumph that goes through me like nails on a blackboard. Despair starts to coalesce in my chest; a small, hard lump that seems to sit heavily on my heart. Am I really going to have to back down after finally standing up for myself?

“It means I get to toss you out on your arse,” says Asha. I realise all over again that I’m not alone, and the despair and the panic just seems to melt away. Asha steps up beside me, and she may be shorter, but she’s so much more solid. Anything she lacks in height she more than makes up for in pure intimidation.

“It means we call the police and tell them you’re refusing to leave,” says Shae, and I’ve never heard her voice sound so cold.

“It means you’re barred,” Ygritte says. “Now smile for the camera.” She snaps a picture of Mike on her phone before he can react. “This is going on the wall of shame.”

My courage returning, I stare down at Mike, who’s now looking decidedly less certain of himself.

“As I said: it’s time for you to leave. Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”

“You can’t do this!” he protests, even as he takes a step backwards. “I haven’t done anything wrong!” With a start, I realise that he actually seems to believe that. Like it’s normal to demand that a complete stranger smile for you, regardless of how she feels about it. Like it’s normal to physically grab someone when she tries to politely extricate herself from a conversation she never wanted in the first place. Like it’s *normal* to resort to insults and name-calling just because she doesn’t capitulate to your whims.

Like *I’m* the one in the wrong here.

Could I be overreacting? Could I have provoked him somehow? Could-

“Oh, *do* make it harder. Please.” Daenerys’ voice pulls me out of my spiral, giving me something to focus on. She sounds fiercely, darkly amused. “I’m looking forward to seeing if Asha can beat her previous distance record for the dickweed discus.”

That phrase… doesn’t sound at all like something I’d expect from Daenerys. But I’m almost more surprised when Asha laughs heartily.

“Surprised you remember that.”

“It was… *memorable*,” Daenerys murmurs.

Asha eyes Mike speculatively. “I think he’s skinnier than the last one.”

“I think you’re right.” Daenerys grins, her expression startlingly like Asha’s. “That means he should go further.”

Mike looks from one of them to the other, paling visibly.

“You can’t… You won’t… If you lay a hand on me, I’ll go to the police! I’ll… I’ll sue!”

Asha raises an eyebrow. “Looks like I’d better make it count then.” She makes a move towards Mike, who backs away, shaking his head.

“You bitches are crazy! And, anyway, the coffee here sucks.” Asha twitches again, and he practically bolts, snatching up his things and making for the door.

“And don’t come back,” Asha calls after him.

Apparently unwilling to let her have the last word, he pauses in the doorway to shout: “Dykes!” before fleeing into the night.

What a classy guy.

There’s a sudden outburst of clapping and cheering from the other customers, startling me. I blush, naturally.

Asha grins and takes a bow. “Nothing to see here, citizens,” she says cheerfully. “Just a common or garden arse-wipe getting what he deserves. Feel free to go about your business.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Shae murmurs. She shakes her head. “And now we really should get back to work. There are orders waiting.”

She suits the action to the words, and I follow her, only realising how wobbly I am when I start to move. I think I might be shaking a little.

“Thanks, all of you,” I say with feeling, turning to include all of them as I start to measure out beans and syrups. “I appreciate you backing me up. I’m sorry for-“

“You stop right there,” Ygritte says sternly. “I heard what he said to you. The guy had it coming.”

“I think the whole shop heard what he said,” Missandei murmurs. I wonder where she came from. “No once could expect you to simply ignore it.”

“You don’t have anything to apologise for,” Shae assures me. “You were perfectly polite to him. He was the one who was out of line.”

“You were a absolutely in the right,” Daenerys says, looking at me with what seems to be a mixture of fondness and pride. “And you were far politer about it than I would’ve been.”

“Not difficult, Dragon,” Asha says, but there’s no bite to the words, and she’s still grinning. “Talk about damning with faint praise.”

“You’re not exactly Miss Manners yourself,” Daenerys retorts, but she sounds amused.

I think this may the most civil they’ve ever been with each other, at least since I’ve known them. I wonder if this means that the bad feelings between them are finally starting to fade. (I wonder at the brief pang that causes in me; something a little tiny bit like… envy? Which is ridiculous. People can and do have more than one close friend. And just because they had a relationship once, that doesn’t mean they’re going to do so again. Not that it would matter even if they did. Even if they did become involved with each other again, I’m sure they’d still be friends with me.)

“Fuck manners,” Asha proclaims. “But, to get back to the subject at hand…” She turns her attention to me. “If you hadn’t given that prick his marching orders, I would’ve done. Customers don’t get to behave like that and still be customers. I would’ve stepped in sooner, but you looked like you had things well in hand.”

“Thanks,” I say, feeling a little overwhelmed by it all. “I think I was doing okay at first, but then he just wouldn’t leave.”

“That’s what back-up’s for,” she says. “But if you do want to learn how to intimidate a motherfucker, I’ll teach you. Or Dany can.”

“Um, thanks,” I say, wondering if I actually *want* to learn how to intimidate a… How to intimidate someone. I think maybe I’d like to learn to be more assertive, at least. I guess I can see how it goes from there.

“Well, as long as you’re okay, I suppose I’d better let you get back to it,” Daenerys says softly, sighing.

“Maybe we can chat when the rush dies down a bit?” I say hopefully, and she rewards me with one of her most brilliant smiles.

“I’d like that.”

And as I once more focus my attention on the act of making coffee, I realise: I’m not feeling wobbly any more. More than that, I think I’m feeling… happy?

I stood up for myself. I stood up for myself and I didn’t back down, not even when my resolve started to waver. I stood up for myself, and my friends backed me up.

I think this must be what triumph feels like.


	33. Chapter 33

Energised by the unfamiliar sensation of victory crackling along my nerves — and by the prospect of actually being able to spend some time with Daenerys in the not-too-distant future — I throw myself into my work with a will. The rush is definitely starting to ease by this point, the end of the queue finally drawing closer to the tills, rather than growing about as quickly as we clear it. Maybe that means one of us will actually be able to take a break sometime soon! I vote for Shae (even if that might mean having to delay that conversation with Daenerys). It seems only fair — I think she’s been working the hardest out of any of us.

I see Reza enter the shop, and actually have the time to return his smile and wave with one of my own. He’s looking a little flushed, but that could just be from the sudden transition from the chill of outside to the warmth of the shop. Or… it could be due to the way that Ygritte is looking at him like a cat spotting a particularly juicy mouse. If she smiled at me the way she’s smiling at him, I think *I’d* blush. (It reminds me a little of the way Margaery looked at me when…) I study Reza surreptitiously in between measuring and pouring, but he doesn’t actually seem displeased to be the focus of such attention. I guess that means I can continue being amused without feeling guilty about it.

A large, slightly complicated order holds my attention for a little while, and when I next look up I’m a little surprised to see Daenerys standing next to Reza in the queue. The two of them seem to be… talking. Whatever their conversation is about, it seems to be awfully earnest. Should I be worried? Should I try to intervene? I study their faces and body language for clues, a little relieved to note that there don’t *seem* to be any obvious signs of hostility. Although apparently serious, the discussion doesn’t appear to be especially unfriendly. In fact, just as I think that, Reza actually smiles and, a beat later, so does Daenerys. They… shake hands? Okay, now I’m absolutely *dying* to know what this is all about. I wonder if one of them will be willing to tell me…

I stew in my own curiosity until the two of them reach the tills to place their orders. Reza gets Ygritte and Daenerys gets Asha, but I don’t know if that was planning or merely coincidence. Ygritte flirts shamelessly with Reza, and I think he might be flirting back. Asha and Daenerys are, apparently, still managing to be civil with each other. Asha even grins as she writes down Daenerys’ order. It’s rather closer to a smirk than a smile, admittedly, and perhaps expresses a certain amount of mockery, but it doesn’t seem especially mean-spirited. For Asha, it’s positively soft. Huh. Perhaps today truly is a day for miracles.

I’m just adding the finishing touches to Daenerys’ drink — another syrup-heavy variant on a white mocha; for ’tis the season, I guess — when I realise there’s someone standing behind me. Somewhat proud of myself for not jumping half-out of my skin, I glance around to see that it’s Mr Baelish.

“Oh, um, hi,” I say, mustering a probably slightly harried-looking smile. “Did you want something, Mr Baelish?”

“Just a quick word, when you have a minute,” he says, and though he sounds friendly enough, his words make my stomach drop. I… bet I know what this is about.

“I need to finish off this order,” I say, somehow managing not to sound like I’m quaking in my boots.

“Come into my office afterwards, then,” he says, then smiles. “No need to look so worried, Sansa. This won’t take long.”

That… doesn’t exactly reassure me. But I nod and smile as best as I can, and make a great show of focusing on Daenerys’ drink until I hear his footsteps move away. Honestly, there isn’t that much left to do to it, but the design I draw on the top ends up being the most elaborate one I’ve ever created. All too soon, though, I reach the point where I just can’t embellish it any more. This drink is done, and so am I.

“Are you alright?” Daenerys asks, looking at me with concern as I hand the concoction to her. “You seem a little shaken.”

I shrug, pulling together a smile.

“Mr Baelish wants to have a word with me.”

Her frown deepens. “About throwing that idiot out?”

“That would be my guess.”

“You were completely in the right there,” she tells me, firmly. “If Mr Baelish tells you any different, he’s wrong. Not that I’m saying he will, but… I just wanted to make sure you know that.”

“I do,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as I’m trying to reassure her. It’s not that I don’t believe it, because I do, but I don’t know if Mr Baelish will see it that way. He is the manager, so… Oh well. I guess there’s no point in getting worked up about it until I hear him out. You never know — this chat might be about something else entirely. “Anyway, I’d better go I suppose. Enjoy your drink!”

“I will,” she replies a little absently, still frowning. “But I’ll be just out here if you need me. Okay?”

“Okay.” Strangely, even though there’s not really a lot she can do if Mr Baelish decides to fire me, that actually makes me feel better. Okay, I guess it’s not actually all that strange: it’s always good to know you’ve got a shoulder to cry on, at the very least. “Thanks.”

I knock a little timidly at the door to Mr Baelish’s office. It’s such a tiny space — I’m sure it must have started out as a closet or store-room — but he seems more or less content there. I mean, he’s always talking about expanding it, but Shae told me that he’s been talking about that for as long as she’s worked here, and yet it still retains the same cramped dimensions. I guess that means it can’t bother him that much.

“Come in,” he calls out. I take a deep breath and step inside, having to twist a little so as not to collide with the filing cabinet wedged awkwardly into the corner. “Hello, Sansa,” he says, smiling. “Please take a seat.”

“Thank you.” The act of sitting down reminds me once more what I’m wearing. I surreptitiously — at least I hope it’s surreptitiously — try to stop my blouse riding up too far.

He steeples his fingers, looking over them at me. “I wanted to talk to you about the earlier… incident,” he says, confirming my fears. He pauses for a moment or two as if waiting for me to speak, but I really don’t have anything to say. Actually, that’s not quite true. Justifications and apologies hover on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t want to give voice to them. So I don’t. A small, faintly disappointed sigh escapes his lips. “Throwing out a paying customer is a serious matter,” he says gravely. “A *very* serious matter. I just want to make sure that you fully appreciate all the ramifications.”

“I do,” I say earnestly. “It’s not something I did lightly — not something I would do lightly — but I…” My throat feels dry all of a sudden. I swallow, trying to ease the sensation of having just swallowed half the Sahara. “I think it was the best course of action at the time.”

“It’s not uncommon for customers to be a little… brusque sometimes,” he says (condescendingly) kindly. “Such is the nature of the service industry, I’m afraid. Perhaps you should learn to be a little thicker-skinned in the future.”

“It wasn’t just rudeness!” I can’t help exclaiming, more than a little horrified. Is that really what he thinks? That I threw someone out for… for not saying please and thank you? “He called me…” No, I can’t repeat that. I just can’t. “An extremely vulgar word,” I say instead. “And he grabbed me.”

Mr Baelish raises his eyebrows. “Grabbed you?” His gaze flicks down briefly, noticeably. “Sexually?”

I can feel my face flame bright red. “No!” I say quickly. “Nothing like that. He just… He grabbed my wrist.”

“Did it hurt?”

I blink at him for a moment, thrown by this unexpected line of questioning.

“Well… no,” I have to admit. “Not really. But-”

But he scared me. But I felt threatened. But that doesn’t matter: behaviour like that just isn’t acceptable and shouldn’t be allowed to pass without consequences. I could say any of those things, and more, but I don’t get the chance.

“Then don’t you think it’s possible that you could have overreacted just a little? Maybe he was just trying to get your attention.”

“By grabbing me?” My voice is about half an octave higher than usual, full of disbelief. And yet… And yet I feel the doubts start to creep in, undermining my previous rock-solid certainty.

Mr Baelish rolls his shoulders in a languid shrug, leaning forward a little in his seat.

“What happened just before that?”

“Before? Um, I was trying to tell him I didn’t have time to chat, on account of we were so busy. I-“

“So, you were ignoring him?”

“No, I-“

“Surely a clever girl like you can manage a little multitasking?” He smiles at me, but rather than making me feel relieved, his expression just makes my gut twist even more. “I think perhaps you should make a little more of an effort to engage with the customers. After all, it’s not just the drinks they come here for; it’s the company. There’s a certain… *expectation*… that the monetary transaction will be accompanied by a minimum level of social intercourse. I’m sorry to say that it sounds like you didn’t fulfil that expectation, and then reacted… poorly… when someone tried to request that you do so.”

“I thought you hired me to make coffee,” I murmur faintly, not having the faintest clue how to respond to that.

“That’s a large part of it, of course,” he says, reaching out to pat me reassuringly? (unnecessarily) on the shoulder. (I manage to suppress my instinctive shudder.) “But it’s by no means the whole of it. Supermarkets sell coffee. Vending machines sell coffee. *We* are marketing an *experience*.” He smiles down at me, lightly rubbing my shoulder, while I stare miserably at him and try not to twitch away. I really have no idea what to say to that. “Customers want to be *served*; to have their needs taken care of. They like to feel like they’re in a position of power, that they’re the dominant parties in the transaction, rather than a mere petitioner.” He’s making this place sound like a… like some sort of a *brothel*. “Part of your job is to foster that impression.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” I say, sounding thoroughly unhappy despite my best efforts to keep my tone pleasantly neutral. “Are you saying I should have stopped making other people’s orders to talk to someone who already had his food and drink?”

“I’m saying that you should really make the effort to do both. Or, why don’t you let, say, Asha make the drinks, so you can take a more forward-facing role? Not only would that give you more of an opportunity to interact with the customers, but the sight of a pretty, smiling face can go a long way towards attracting new business.” His gaze dips then, and I don’t think it’s my face he’s looking at when he adds: “It seems a shame to hide you away behind the coffee machine when you could be out there on the till where people can see you.”

My pulse thuds so loudly in my ears that I’m almost surprised he doesn’t ask what that loud drumming sound is. I want to get out of here so badly that the need is almost a physical ache, but I can’t just flee. Unable to just sit there any longer, though, I shift around as if trying to get comfortable on the hard seat, coincidentally moving myself just far enough that Mr Baelish’s hand falls away from my shoulder.

I try to convince myself that the smile on his lips is fond; fatherly, even, but I just can’t do it. Not anymore. He’s… He’s leering at me. And it’s not the first time. It’s not even just the seasonal uniforms, although being so exposed makes it feel about a thousand times worse. I’ve tried to convince myself that it’s nothing, that it’s just my imagination working overtime. Because if I accept it — if I acknowledge it — then that makes it real. But… But denying it wasn’t making me feel any better, not really. Although I think admitting it may be making me feel worse.

Should I say something? Tell him he’s making me feel uncomfortable? What if.. What if he isn’t aware he’s doing it? What if…?

No. I’m… not sure I believe that. But what can I do? It’s not like I have any proof. Only my feelings, and he could just tell me that I’m mistaken. That I’m being oversensitive. Maybe I am. I don’t know. I just don’t know. I need to think about it, but I can’t right now. Not here, under his gaze.

I try to make myself focus through the maelstrom of my thoughts, seizing on the one thing I think I can deal with right now.

“I like making coffee,” I tell him, and I’m relieved that my voice comes out something close to steady. “And I’m good at it; better than I am on the tills, actually.” I can tell by his expression that he’s not convinced, so I hurriedly continue, plucking at the one thing I think might actually give him pause for thought. “Customers specifically request me to make their drinks.” Largely Daenerys, although she’s not the only one. But it’s not my fault if he thinks that I’m more in demand as a barista than I actually am. (And I barely have any qualms about misleading him.)

He raises his eyebrows.

“Is that so?” he says, thoughtfully.

“Yes,” I say, nodding enthusiastically. “And I generally do manage to talk to the ones that want to chat while I’m making their drinks.” Again, largely Daenerys. And Reza, of course, although there are also some regulars that will happily exchange a few words with me if there’s time. Of course, they’ll generally chat with any of us, without any particular preference, but that makes no never mind. “It’s just that we were so busy earlier — much busier than usual — and I really wasn’t at all rude…”

I hate the wheedling tone that creeps into my voice, making me sound like a supplicant, but I know it can only help my case as far as Mr Baelish is concerned. Now really isn’t the time to stand up and assert myself. He studies me thoughtfully for what feels like an eternity, although it really can’t be more than a moment or two before he nods slowly and says:

“Well, I suppose that’s acceptable. As long as you really do make more of an effort in future.”

“I will,” I say, mentally crossing my fingers and appending ‘as long as there’s time, and the customer in question doesn’t act so *entitled*.’

“Good,” he says. “Now, as for this customer you ejected…”

Oh god. He’s going to say we still have to serve the guy if he shows up here again, isn’t he? I just know he is. And maybe Mike won’t darken our door again, so maybe it’ll just be a moot point, but what if it isn’t? What if he does come back? Will I really have to act like none of that ever happened? Like he didn’t grab me? Like he didn’t call me… that word? I just don’t think I can do it. I don’t. But… can I really refuse? I know there are other part-time jobs out there, but, well, I *like* this one. And I’m good at it. I don’t want to just walk away…

“He called her a cunt.”

Asha’s voice is shortly followed by the woman herself. There isn’t really room for all three of us in here, so she stands in the doorway, craning her neck so she can fix Mr Baelish with a stare as level and blunt as her words. He winces, although whether at the vulgarity or at the fact of Asha’s interruption I don’t know.

“That was… unnecessarily crude,” he allows. Is that all? So, does he mean it’s okay for the customers to call us names as long as they stick to an acceptable level of crudeness? But he hasn’t finished speaking yet. “What did you do to provoke that kind of response?”

What did I… what?!

“Nothing!” I say. How can he even ask that? What exactly does he think happened out there?

“She didn’t do anything,” Asha says sharply. “You know Sansa — she’s practically made of manners. The guy was just a grade-A prick, and he absolutely deserved to get booted. You realise that what he did was assault, right? Both verbal *and* physical.”

Mr Baelish laughs lightly, flicking one hand dismissively.

“I think you’re rather overstating the case,” Asha, he says softly. “Sansa herself said that the gentleman didn’t actually hurt her. And it was her wrist he touched, rather than anything more… delicate.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Asha says flatly. “Still counts as assault as far as the law’s concerned. Threatening behaviour, at the very least. And an employer who doesn’t take steps to protect his employees from that kind of treatment is opening himself up to a whole mess of legal action. Those kinds of things can get nasty, and that’s not even accounting for the bad publicity.” She crosses her arms. “Can’t imagine head office would be too happy about something like that.”

Despite the fact that his lips are still curved in a slight smile, his face has taken on a pinched, tight look, as if he’s smelling something unpleasant.

“It’s a little early for predictions of doom and gloom, don’t you think?” he says, in that peculiar almost whisper he uses sometimes when Asha’s being particularly firm about something. It should sound soft, maybe even placating, and yet something about it always makes me think of barbed wire, razor blades and other things that cut and tear. (It makes me feel a little afraid for her, sometimes, and a little afraid of him.) “After all, as I understand it, the problem has been dealt with: the individual in question has been banned from the shop.”

It takes me a second to parse his meaning, and then a powerful wave of relief almost turns my knees to jelly, or would if I wasn’t sitting down. He isn’t going to allow Mike back after all. He isn’t going to make me talk to him, or serve him, or interact with him at all.

I think I could just about hug Asha right now. Even though neither one of us are really much for hugs.

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” she sniffs. “Anyway, if you’ve finished with Sansa, I really need her out here. One of her regulars is asking after her.”

“Of course,” Mr Baelish says magnanimously. “Do run along, Sansa.” He actually winks at me. “I can’t keep you all to myself, after all.”

I have no idea what to say to that, so I just give him what’s probably a rather sickly smile and follow Asha out into the shop. She closes the door behind us with rather more force than is strictly necessary, but doesn’t say anything until we get back into the main part of the shop.

“You okay?” she asks me.

“Yes, of course,” I say, managing a rather more genuine smile for her. “I appreciate the…” It probably wouldn’t exactly be tactful to call it a rescue, even though that’s precisely what it felt like. “Intervention, though.”

“Yeah, well, Dany gave me a heads up. And that little titbit about employer liability.” She shakes her head, looking thoroughly disgusted. “I can’t believe Littlefinger was going to allow that little cock-smear back in here after what he did.”

I think I feel a little faint.

“Do you really think that’s what he was going to say?” I ask. I mean, it’s what *I* thought he was going to say, but I was really hoping to be mistaken.

“Sure as shit sounded like it from where I was eavesdropping,” she says. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. He’s not going to do anything that jeopardises his position in the hallowed Hot Coffee corporate circle-jerk.”

“Oh.” I wouldn’t have put it quite so crudely, but I think she’s right. It’s no secret that Mr Baelish has his eye on the regional manager position, and a lawsuit certainly wouldn’t help his chances. Even if the odds of me bringing any kind of legal action against him or the shop are so small as to be nonexistent. “Well, thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me for doing my job,” she says, shrugging. “But you’re welcome.”

I think she and I both know that her actions were more about protecting me than about doing her job, but if that’s the way she wants to play things I’m not going to call her out on it. Gratitude can make her uncomfortable sometimes. I… can kind of understand that.

“Anyway,” she says with an air of finality. “Time to get back to it, And I think someone wants to talk to you.” She tilts her head. “Actually, make that two someones.”

Sure enough, as I step up to the counter, I see both Daenerys and Reza standing there, apparently chatting. Ygritte and Missandei are manning the till and the machine, respectively. Shae is nowhere in sight, so I assume she must have gone on her much-deserved break. I’m almost surprised she went while Asha and I were both otherwise occupied, but I guess it’s a lot quieter in her than it was when I arrived. Certainly, Ygritte and Missandei seem to be keeping on top of things just fine.

Daenerys looks up as Asha and I approach, her expression (anxious?) concerned.

“How did it go?” she asks.

I feel some of the residual tension fade, giving her a small smile.

“It was fine in the end,” I tell her, in what’s hopefully a reassuring tone. “Mike’s still banned, and I’m not in trouble.”

Asha snorts loudly.

“Baelish was going to let him back,” she says, sounding thoroughly disgusted.

“No!” Ygritte exclaims, eavesdropping shamelessly. “Did you tell him what happened?”

“Yeah. And that he’d be opening himself up to a world of problems if he went ahead with it.” She glances at Daenerys. “Thanks for that, by the way. And for the heads up.”

There’s maybe a hint of a grudging tone to her voice, but Daenerys doesn’t comment on it , only acknowledging the thanks. Her: “You’re welcome,” is a little distant, though, and her attention seems to be largely focused on me. (I feel myself flushing for no apparent reason. I guess at heart I’m still that shy girl who’s not used to being in the spotlight.)

“Sounds like I missed all the excitement,” Reza says, and then winces. “I didn’t mean… I mean, I’m sure it was awful.”

“It’s okay,” I reassure him. “I know what you meant.” (Is it terrible of me to be a little glad that I’m not the only one who suffers from foot-in-mouth syndrome on occasion? It probably is terrible. I feel a little ashamed of myself, but that doesn’t lessen the relief one iota.)

“Sansa was great!” Ygritte says, leaving her post to come over and hug me. Asha rolls her eyes, but doesn’t actually call her on it, simply going to take her place at the till. “You should have seen the way she told that arsehole to get out of here. I thought he was going to piss his pants.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” I have to protest. “He didn’t seem to take me seriously at all. It was only when the rest of you joined me that he started to look even a little worried.”

“Whatever; you were awesome. And brave.”

She squeezes me tightly and then lets me go. She starts to head for the tills, but when she sees Asha there she simply shrugs and stays where she is, leaning against the counter. Reza flushes slightly and looks away. From the way Ygritte smirks, I don’t think it was an accident that her cleavage ended up in his eyeline.

“Ygritte’s right,” Daenerys says softly, leaning in close to me so it feels like we’re having a private conversation. “You were brave. I know that can’t have been easy for you, but you did it anyway.”

My cheeks flush hotter. I shrug awkwardly, feeling uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t brave, not really. I was scared the whole time.” 

Daenerys laughs softly, lightly covering my hand with hers. Her skin is warm where it touches mine, heat spreading through me from the contact. “Oh, Sansa,” she murmurs, her voice as warm as her touch, rich with fondness (and maybe something more complex). “That’s what bravery *is*. It doesn’t mean you’re not afraid. It means that you take action *despite* your fear.”

“Oh,” I breathe, and it’s like my whole world has been turned on its head. Have I been thinking about this the wrong way all this time? Could I be… Could I really be the kind of person she’s saying I am? That look she’s giving me… Could I really be worthy of that kind of… admiration?

(It makes me feel like…)

It’s like the whole world has shrunk somehow, when I wasn’t looking. Like it’s just the two of us. Just Daenerys and me, and this feeling that I can’t quite put into words. Like friendship, but more than that; deeper somehow. And I can tell by the look in her eyes — that startled, open, *vulnerable* expression — that, whatever it is, she can sense it too.

It makes me feel like I could just…

“Dany: a word?”

I jump a little, Asha’s clarion tones shattering the web of whatever-it-was that had woven itself around my thoughts. I really should learn to stop woolgathering like this. Honestly! I’m a grown woman now; I really should know better than to stand around letting myself drift into daydreams. Especially when I’m in the middle of a conversation.

Daenerys also seems briefly startled, pulling her hand away like she’s just touched a live wire, but her expression is smooth again when she turns to Asha and says:

“Yes?”

“Outside,” Asha says brusquely, and it could just be my imagination, but the tension that seemed absent from their earlier interactions seems to have come back in spades. I don’t like it. I don’t understand it. Daenerys and I… We were only talking. (So why do I feel like I’ve just been caught doing something I shouldn’t?)

Daenerys frowns. “I haven’t finished my drink,” she says, sounding faintly irritated.

“Bring it.” Not even looking to see whether Daenerys follows, she starts heading for the door. “Ygritte, you have the till,” she calls back over her shoulder. “And no slacking off this time.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Ygritte mutters sarcastically, but she takes up her post.

Daenerys stares after Asha for a few moments, frowning, then mutters something I don’t understand under her breath and snatches up her cup.

“I shouldn’t be long,” she tells me, flashing me a quick smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Will you please keep an eye on my things?”

“Of course,” I say, even though what I really want to do is ask her what the heck is going on? What does Asha want to talk to her about that’s so mysterious? And, apparently, such a source of tension? (Could it be? Could it possibly be something to do with her friendship with me? I don’t see why, and yet… Oh, who knows?)

“Thanks.” With another distracted smile, she heads out after Asha, leaving me staring at the door in bafflement.

“Well, that was mysterious,” says Reza. “Any idea what it was about?”

“Not a clue,” I say, shaking my head. Feeling like I should somehow be doing something useful, I start tidying up and restocking the workstations. Actually, speaking of mysterious conversations… “Actually,” I say, surreptitiously studying Reza. “That reminds me: what were you and Daenerys chatting about earlier?” It belatedly occurs to me that I’m blatantly prying. If Mum could see me now, she would give me *such* a disapproving look. “Um, if you don’t mind me asking, that is,” I add hurriedly.

“No, uh, it’s not a big secret or anything,” Reza reassures me, smiling. “Daenerys just, well, she apologised. For getting the wrong idea about me, before. When she thought… You know.”

“Oh.” Apropos of nothing, I suddenly find myself smiling. “That’s good.”

“Yeah.” Reza grins back. “We chatted for a bit and I think we’re okay now. It was just a misunderstanding.”

“Good,” I say again, a warm feeling spreading through my chest. Although I have no reason to think so, I suddenly find myself convinced that she did this, at least in part, for me. I mean, I’m sure she has her own reasons as well, but I think she must have known it would make me happy for the two of them to no longer be on bad terms. They’re both my friends, after all. It’s not good when your friends don’t get on.

“Oh!” Reza says, as if a thought has just occurred to him. “I hope you don’t mind, but…”

“Yes?” I prompt, when he shows no particular signs of continuing.

“I kind of invited Daenerys to see The Desolation of Smaug with us. Is that okay?”

I beam at him. “Of course that’s okay,” I tell him firmly. “First of all, you don’t need to ask my permission to invite people to something you’re organising. And, second, she’s my friend. Of course I’m not going to mind spending time with her.”

If anything, her presence can only make the outing that much more fun for me. I can’t wait!

I just hope everything’s okay with her and Asha.

I wonder what the problem is. I wonder what they have to talk about that’s so secret that they have to go and stand outside in the freezing cold.

I wonder if I’ll ever find out what’s going on.


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's been a while since I last posted. Sorry about that. I'm hoping to keep to a more regular update schedule from now on.

I could just ask her.

I mean, she’s my friend. At worst, all she’ll say is that it’s none of my beeswax, and she doesn’t want to talk about it. And she’d probably phrase it more politely than that. I doubt she’ll mind me asking a question, even if it’s one she doesn’t want to answer. I should just ask her and get it out of the way. She probably won’t tell me, but then again she might. There’s a chance I’d actually be able to assuage the curiosity that’s pretty much eating me alive.

What on earth is going on between Daenerys and Asha?

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Daenerys’ voice makes me jump a little. I try to cover my startled reaction with a smile. (Honestly, it isn’t hard to smile when I look at her. It never is.)

“Oh, um, nothing exciting.” The question hovers on the tip of my tongue, waiting to be given voice. “Just wondering if I’ve forgotten anything.”

Yes, I chicken out. I guess I’ll just have to cope with the curiosity. Who knows? Maybe she’ll volunteer the information sometime. I place the odds of that only slightly higher than Asha spilling the beans, which is a little higher than the probability of hell freezing over. Neither Asha nor Daenerys are exactly the type to reveal someone else’s secrets.

“Have you?” Daenerys sounds amused.

“Um…” I look at my luggage, going over everything in my head, trying to figure out whether I really remember packing all the important things, or if I just think I do. My response wasn’t *precisely* a fib. Whenever I travel anywhere, no matter how certain I think I am, or how many times I check, I always worry that I’ve forgotten something vital. I *think* I’ve got everything I need, but… I guess it can’t hurt to check. Okay: train tickets, laptop, purse, phone, iPod, lecture notes… Yep, everything seems to be there. And clothes, of course, but I’m not really worried about those. I have plenty of stuff still at home. Home. Huh. It almost seems strange to be going back to Sheffield; to my family. I wonder if I’ll feel different when I get there. (I wonder if I’ll revert to the person I was before.) I put that thought aside for now and give Daenerys a relieved smile. “No, it doesn’t look like it.”

She laughs now.

“With all the double and triple-checking you did, I’d be surprised if you had,” she teases gently, briefly resting her hand on my shoulder. I blush.

“I just worry, that’s all,” I say, feeling a little self-conscious.

(Part of me — a small part — is still waiting for the sneer, for the humour to turn mean and mocking, but I push that part aside with barely any effort at all. I wonder if it will ever disappear completely, or if it’s always going to be lurking there at the back of my mind, oozing doubt and fear and distrust. For the moment, I don’t think it matters. I trust Daenerys, and I know she’s never going to hurt me. The rest… That’s just going to take time. I’ve come so far already, and as long as I have friends like Daenerys by my side, I know I can make it the rest of the way. I just need to be patient.)

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world if you had,” she says cheerfully. “There’s plenty of time before your train. I could always take your keys and nip back to retrieve anything important. Assuming you trust me with your keys, that is.”

“Of course I do,” I say immediately, feeling strangely choked up. She really is such a good friend. “Thanks for the offer. And thank you for helping me to the station.” It’s not like I couldn’t have managed to lug all my bags here by myself, but it would have been pretty awkward. It’s just so much easier with two people.

“You’re very welcome,” Daenerys says. “It’s really no trouble. I had a few things to do in town anyway.” Her voice softens as she continues: “Besides, this way I get to say a proper goodbye to you.”

“Well, I appreciate it,” I tell her, wondering when it got so warm in here. I guess the station staff must have turned the heating up or something. Maybe that’s why my face feels so hot. Even Daenerys is looking a little flushed — I guess she must be feeling the heat too. Without really intending to move, I reach out and take her hand. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me,” I say, marvelling at my own boldness. My heart is pounding, but I don’t think it’s embarrassment I’m feeling right now. It’s just… She’s such a good friend, and it’s suddenly vitally important that I make sure she knows how much she means to me. Especially when I’m not going to see her until the new year. I know it’s not that long, not really, but right now that’s starting to feel like an age, and I… I’m really going to miss her. “I’m so glad I met you.”

“I’m glad I met you, too,” she says, almost whispering the words, and her eyes are so, so wide as she looks at me with an expression I can’t quite decipher. There’s something startled, something fond there. (Something deeper than the sea.) Instinctively, I take a step towards her, as if decreasing the distance between us will bring some strange form of enlightenment.

“I…” I begin, and then stop, not sure where I was going to go from there. I meet her gaze helplessly, hoping she can somehow, miraculously, tell me what’s going through my head.

She draws a sharp breath, almost a gasp, leaning in as if she’s going to whisper secrets in my ear. My skin practically tingles with anticipation…

(I don’t understand what’s happening to me. Why does it feel like the whole world is holding its breath? Am I coming down with something? Is that why I feel like a stiff breeze could bowl me over? Is that why I feel like I’m standing on the surface of the sun?)

But then she pulls back again, practically tearing her hand from mine and running it through her already perfect hair. She gives me a distracted smile, her expression a little strained around the edges.

“So,” she says, and it might be my imagination, but I half-fancy she sounds a little breathless. (I guess it really is hot in here — it’s not just that I’m in the grip of some strange fever.) “Do you have any plans to meet up with Margaery over the holidays?”

“Oh!” I feel a jolt, like gravity has just reasserted its hold on me, slamming me back down to earth with a thump. “Um, no definite plans at the moment, but she said she might be up north for a New Year’s party. If so, she’ll probably stop by. She’s going to let me know.”

I feel oddly guilty, probably because I haven’t really thought about Margaery at all over the last couple of days. I’ve just been so busy, what with uni and work and packing and stuff. And spending time with my friends, of course. I resolve to text her when I’m on the train. And to spend some time working on her Christmas present. If she does come up sometime over the holidays, I really need to get it finished.

“That’s good,” Daenerys says, still sounding a little dazed. She pulls herself together with a visible effort, recovering something like her usual composure as she abruptly starts fishing around in her bag. “Speaking of the holidays, I hope you don’t mind, but I, uh, got you a little something.” When she pulls her hand out of her bag, she’s clutching a neatly-wrapped parcel. She holds it out a little awkwardly. “Happy christmas,” she says brightly.

I stare at the parcel, utterly flummoxed. The wrapping paper features cheerful-looking dragons wearing festive hats and toasting what I think are chestnuts in their flames. The whole thing is tied up with silver ribbon.

Belatedly, it occurs to me that I should probably take the offered package from her outstretched hand. Honestly! Where are my manners?

“Oh, um, thank you.” I shift bags around so I can clutch her present with both hands, resisting the urge to shake it and prod at it to try to figure out what it is. Daenerys got me a christmas present? Warmth kindles in my chest, and I find myself smiling so broadly I can feel the tension in my cheeks. Daenerys got me a christmas present! “Thank you so much!” I manage to say, and then a horrible realisation crashes through my mind. “But I didn’t get you anything! Well, I kind of started something, but I left it too late and it’s not finished, and… and…”

“Breathe, Sansa,” Daenerys says, her voice gentle. I take her advice. After a moment or two, she continues speaking.“It’s alright — I wasn’t expecting anything in return. Honestly, this was a spur of the moment purchase. I just saw it and, well…” She takes a breath. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will,” I say, managing to recover some of my equilibrium. I take a deep breath, and then ask: “Do you mind if I open it now?”

“Not at all,” she says, although a touch of apprehension shows in her eyes. Maybe it would be more proper to wait until I’m on the train, or at least until she’s no longer standing right there in front of me, but I just don’t know if I can hang on that long. I’m absolutely *dying* to know what it is. After a brief interlude of dithering, I push my hesitation aside and dive right in.

Well, okay; not *quite* dive in. No matter how curious I am, I can’t quite bring myself to just tear through the wrapping paper. Not after the effort she’s made. Besides, I really like the design. I think I want to keep it. I carefully ease off the ribbon and slide the edge of my thumbnail along the sellotape to lift it before slowly unfolding the paper. My anticipation mounts as I peel it back to reveal… a book? A large hard-backed book; beautifully finished and illustrated. I turn it over in my hands, studying it. I rub my thumb over the embossed title and author’s name.

“The Kushiel’s Legacy omnibus edition,” I breathe, my tone somewhere between question and observation.

“You seemed to enjoy the ones you’ve read so far,” she says, sounding a little apprehensive. “I saw this and I thought you might like to have your own copy.” She pauses a moment, and then continues all in a rush. “I hope it’s okay. I-“

“It’s wonderful,” I say firmly, looking up at her with a smile that falters as a realisation hits me. “But it must have…” It must have cost a *bomb*. “I mean, I love it, I really do, but I don’t know if I can accept it.” Although even as I say the words, my hands are curling possessively around the book and I honestly don’t know if I actually have the willpower to hand it back again.

“It was in the sale,” she says quickly. “And of course you can accept it.” Her resolve wavers visibly, uncertainty filling her eyes. “If you want to, of course.”

“I do,” I say helplessly, unable to stop myself from clutching it to my chest. “It’s *gorgeous*.”

She relaxes at the sincerity of my admiration (and possibly at my obvious possessiveness), looking at me in a way that makes me catch my breath.

“Then you should definitely keep it,” she says decisively. “I’m so glad you like it.”

“I really do,” I say fervently. “Thank you so much. It’s a wonderful present.”

“You’re very welcome,” she says, her eyes twinkling with happiness. “Happy christmas, Sansa.”

“Happy christmas,” I echo.

Somehow, I resist the urge to crack the cover right away and start reading, held in check by nothing more than the vestiges of politeness. (Well, and the fact that as much as I’ll undoubtedly enjoy savouring the book, I’m enjoying Daenerys’ company more.) I guess I can wait until I get on the train. Maybe. Hopefully. And then I’ll have the whole holiday. Although I’m not sure I really want to risk any of my family asking me what it is I’m reading. God, how would I even begin to explain? Especially to my mum! My face heats just thinking about it. (Well, heats up even more than it already was.)

Pushing aside my ridiculous embarrassment over something that hasn’t even happened yet (and resolving to take every precaution to keep it from the prying eyes of my family) I carefully stow the book in my satchel, wrapping it in a carrier bag to protect it from scratches and scrapes. The wrapping paper I tuck into a pocket of my backpack. Daenerys watches the whole production with obvious amusement, but forbears to comment.

“Right,” she says when I’ve finished, her tone decisive. “Let’s find somewhere to sit.” Casting about for somewhere suitable, her gaze lights on something that makes her eyes twinkle. “Want to check out Hot Coffee’s competition?”

A coffee would go down pretty well right now; especially a coffee that someone else makes while I put my feet up and relax. More than that, though, I’m pleased and slightly touched that she apparently really does intend to stick around to see me off. Even though, thanks to my paranoid over-preparedness, we got here *way* too early for my train.

“I’d love that,” I say. “As long as I’m not keeping you from your errands.”

She waves a hand airily. “You’re not, don’t worry. I don’t have all that much to do.” She leans in and snags the handle of my suitcase, tugging it along before I can so much as protest, let alone take it myself. “Besides,” she says, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Spending time with you is much more fun than tending to errands. Trust me, you’re doing me a favour.”

Her good humour is infectious. I grin back at her, snatching up my sports bag (inherited from Rob) before she can reach for that too.

“Oh, well. In that case, carry on.”

And as we make our merry way towards the coffee shop, it hits me all over again: I’m really going to miss her. I’m going to miss all of them; all my newfound friends. (But she’s the one I’m going to miss the most.) I miss my family too, though, and I’m really looking forward to seeing them, even though I can hardly believe that in a couple of hours or so I’m going to be back in Sheffield.

I’m just glad I have the chance to spend a little more time with my friend — my good friend; no, my *best* friend — before I go.

 

* * * * *

 

By the time the train is pulling into the station, I’m already standing at the door, waiting impatiently for it to unlock and let me off. (I’ve already checked, double-checked and triple-checked to make sure I’m not about to leave anything on the train.) It started when the ticket inspector came around calling out “Tickets and passes please,” in a broad Yorkshire accent, the feeling building within me as the train carried me closer and closer to my destination. Now, seeing all those familiar nearly-there places passing by and receding into the distance, I actually, really, *truly* feel like I’m coming home.

I’ve already pushed down the little window in the door, and as the platform comes into view I reach through it — even though you’re supposed to wait until the train has come to a complete stop before doing so — and wrap my fingers around the door handle. Somehow, I’m unwilling to waste even so much as the couple of seconds it would take if I waited until the proper time. How rebellious of me! I find myself gripping the cold metal tightly, as if that can somehow communicate my sudden urgency to the driver, or even to the train itself; like that can somehow speed the process up. I know it’s silly, but I do it anyway. I just can’t help it.

I just want to be *home*!

The train drifts lazily to a halt, and it seems like half an eternity goes by before the doors unlock with a loud thunk. I push the handle down and start to fling the door wide open, checking the motion as I belatedly remember to make sure that no one’s standing in its path. Fortunately, no one is. I’d feel absolutely *horrible* if I managed to hurt someone. With that thought comes a certain caution — the return of my natural caution, perhaps — and, no matter how much I want to rush off full tilt, I make myself step down slowly and carefully from the train. It really wouldn’t do to fall and break something, or to lose one of my many bags down the gap between the train and the platform, or any one of the other horrible things that would put a damper on the holidays.

I spot a familiar figure waiting on the platform and try to wave, but almost end up destabilising my precariously balanced load. I think maybe I should wait until I’m down on solid ground before trying to attract my brother’s attention. However seems to have spotted me anyway, because he starts to head in my direction.

“Hey there, little sister,” Rob says as he draws near, reaching past me to grab the more precariously balanced of my bags. I let him take them, impulsively stepping into his arms and giving him a quick hug. I feel him start a little, perhaps in surprise, but he dutifully hugs me back loosely. “Welcome home.”

“It’s so good to be back,” I sigh with feeling. I’ve missed you. All of you.”

“We’ve all missed you, too,” he says, and in that moment, he sounds so much like Dad that it almost brings a tear to my eye. But I swallow back the pang of sadness, determined not to let anything spoil my homecoming. He steps back and gives me a slightly lopsided grin. “Although you might want to see just how glad you are when you step into the Winterfell war zone.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Is it really that bad?”

He grimaces. “Not really, but… Let’s just say there have been a few differences of opinion here and there. Nothing to worry about, but consider yourself warned.”

“Alright, I will.” Dire as the warning sounds, it doesn’t quench my enthusiasm one bit. I doubt it’s as bad as he’s making out. Nice as it would be if everyone just got along, you’ve got to expect a *few* spats here and there when you gather together a bunch of relatives who haven’t seen each other in a while. Especially when those people are as, ah, possessed of strong opinions as the Starks and the Tullys.

I’m sure everything will be fine.

Even if a pang goes through me at the thought of the one family member who won’t be there. Who will never be there again. I try not to dwell on that thought.

Having dutifully delivered his warning, Rob looks me up and down. 

“Have you gotten taller?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with humour. It’s a long-running ‘joke’ of his. I roll my own eyes.

“Maybe you’ve just gotten shorter,” I retort.

He laughs. “Maybe I have. It must be all that hunching over business plans and the like.” He wrests the sports bag from my grasp and pretends to stumble as he takes the full weight. “Jesus, Sansa!” he exclaims, his eyebrows shooting up as he hefts it onto his shoulder. “What have you got in here? Rocks?”

“Books,” I say, shrugging. “Clothes. My sewing kit. The usual.”

“Well, it weighs a tonne,” he mock-grumbles. “Honestly, I don’t know how you can even lift it.”

“I’m not a weakling,” I say, feeling obscurely — and strangely — offended by the implication that I’m not capable of carrying my own bags.

“I didn’t say you were,” he replies, and if he thinks anything of the fact that I’m actually loudly arguing the point with him, rather than merely ducking my head and mumbling, it doesn’t show in his genially amused expression. “Just that this is bloody heavy. Why didn’t you pack the books in your suitcase? At least that thing has wheels.”

“I did!” I protest, perhaps a little too defensively. “But they wouldn’t all fit. Well, they would, but then I wouldn’t have been able to lift the thing. I thought it was better to spread the load a little.”

“Alright, alright,” he says placatingly, giving me a look I can’t quite interpret. “They’re your bags; you can pack them however you want.” He puts on a long-suffering expression and sighs heavily. “Don’t mind your poor aged brother and his creaking bones.”

“Clown,” I accuse, laughing.

“I’ll have you know I am the epitome of sober dignity,” he says loftily, proceeding to completely undermine his words by pulling the most horrendous face at me; crossed-eyes and all.

“If the wind changes, you’ll be stuck like that,” I warn.

“Arya did say Winterfell would look better with a few gargoyles,” he muses, mock-seriously. “But… I don’t think Talisa would appreciate my new look.”

Huh?

“Talisa?” I repeat, confused. I don’t think I know anyone by that name…

“Oh,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking away briefly before he meets my eyes with what can only be described as a slightly sheepish grin. “Well, this is as good a time as any, I suppose. I’ve, ah, met someone. A woman, I mean.” His grin broadens, and I swear it’s like the sun comes out behind his eyes, lighting up his whole face. “We’re together.”

“Congratulations!” I say, the sight of his unalloyed happiness bringing a smile to my own lips. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Thanks, Sis.”

There’s a hint of something in his voice that might be wonder. Like he can’t believe his good fortune. And the look in his eyes… That’s the look of a man in love.

“So, tell me about her. What’s she like? How did you meet? How long have you been together?”

It’s suddenly vital to me that I know everything about this woman who’s apparently captured my brother’s heart. I wonder what she’s like; what sort of a person she is. I wonder if I’ll ever get to meet her. I hope we get along. (I hope she likes me.)

“I can do better than that,” Rob, his eyes twinkling. “I’ve brought her home with me for the holidays. And, well, I wanted the two of you to have the chance to get to know each other a little bit before we get to the madhouse that is Winterfell right now. So, she’s waiting in the car.” He hesitates, his brows drawing together slightly in a not-quite-frown. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Of course it’s okay,” I say, touched by his thoughtfulness. I wonder if it’s on my account or hers. Honestly, I suspect a little of both, and I can’t say that I blame him. It can’t be easy for her, thrust into the middle of a raucous family gathering like this.

“Good.” He sounds relieved. “Shall we head for the car, then?”

“Yes, let’s!” I nod enthusiastically, driven by a heady mix of curiosity about Talisa and impatience to be on our way to Winterfell.

He laughs softly clearly amused at me, but all he says aloud is: “Okay, it’s this way.”

 

* * * * *

 

The car door opens as we draw near, and a woman steps out, striding determinedly towards us. She’s tall, although not as tall as me, with dark hair that falls to her shoulders in a mass of waves. Her body is swathed in a heavy winter coat of bright, cheery letter-box red. Somehow, it manages to look striking, rather than garish.

“I was starting to wonder if I should send out a search party,” my brother’s girlfriend says, sounding amused. Before Rob can reply, she embraces him — somehow managing to not to dislodge the bags he’s carrying for me — and kisses him familiarly on the lips. I politely avert my gaze.

“I wasn’t that long,” Rob protests.

“Maybe I just missed you,” she murmurs back, and I find myself blushing at the low, smoky note in her voice. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all… Rob coughs; perhaps embarrassment, perhaps reminding her that they’re not alone. Or, perhaps he just has a cough. In any case, Talisa says: “And you must be Sansa.”

“Nice to-” I start to say, turning to her with what I hope isn’t too awkward a smile, but before I can finish the sentence, I find myself wrapped in an enthusiastic hug. A small, startled noise escapes my lips (okay, it’s a squeak; I totally squeak in surprise), but I recover my composure as best as I can, returning the hug a little stiffly. “Meet you,” I finish, my voice a little muffled by her hair. (Her hair smells nice; hints of jasmine and something else I can’t identify. Absently, I wonder what shampoo she uses.)

“Nice to meet you too!” she replies, squeezing me tightly (so tightly that her breasts press against mine, the full-body contact making me jump; making me think of those hugs from Daenerys that, while just as close, fell nowhere near as *awkward*), before releasing me again to take Rob’s hand. I fight — unsuccessfully — to keep the flush from my cheeks.

“Sansa’s not really one for hugs,” Rob tells Talisa, his tone almost apologetic.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Sansa,” Talisa says. She gives me a rueful grin as she releases me. “I’m afraid I’m an inveterate hugger: I hug pretty much everyone. I’ll try to rein it in around you, though.”

“That’s alright,” I say, her easy manner defusing some of my embarrassed awkwardness. “No need to stop on my account. Anyway,” I add, addressing the remark more to Rob than to her. “I don’t mind hugs so much these days.” Thinking of the Nottingham crowd — and when did I start thinking of my new friends that way? — I find myself relaxing even more. “It turns out that many of my new friends are also inveterate huggers.”

“That’s alright, then,” Talisa says, beaming. She nudges Rob in the side. “Do you think your mother’s forgiven me for hugging her yet?”

Rob winces. I try to gasp and chuckle at the same time, and nearly end up choking myself.

“Maybe give it a day or two,” He advises her, taking her hand in his. Twining their fingers together, he brings it to his lips to plant a kiss on the back of her glove. It’s a fond gesture; a comforting one. And one that’s completely and utterly uncharacteristic of him.

Well. Actually, I guess I don’t *know* that it’s uncharacteristic of him. I just know that I haven’t seen such gestures from him before. An easy smile, yes. The odd clap or touch to the shoulder, yes. Even a firm, manly hug if he’s really feeling expressive. But nothing quite so… so tender.

I guess I’ve never really seen him with a girlfriend before, though.

Curious, I watch Rob and Talisa together, mentally cataloguing every little detail. Anything to better help me understand the situation between them.

(Anything to better help me understand love.)

Despite the tenderness of Rob’s gesture, and the obvious delight with which Talisa receives it, there’s a tension in the set of his mouth and around her eyes. That tension speaks of greater cause for concern than an unwanted, badly-received hug. Do Talisa and Mum… not get on? I almost wonder that aloud, but catch myself before the tactless question passes my lips. Let’s *not* start this holiday off by putting my foot squarely in my mouth. I’m sure there’ll be ample opportunity for that later.

And to figure out how Talisa and Mum are getting along. If they’re not, well, that’s going to be pretty obvious.

A particularly fierce gust of wind interrupts my thoughts, knifing right through me despite my many layers of winter armour, making me shiver.

“Shall we get in the car?” I say, half-surprised that my teeth aren’t chattering with cold.

“Fantastic idea,” Talisa says, disentangling herself from Rob. Giving me a wink, she continues. “I don’t know why you’re keeping us standing around out here, Rob. I mean, the car is right there!”

“You’re the one who got out of the car in the first place!” Rob protests, but I can hear the laughter in his voice; see the fond smile hovering over his lips as he heaves a long-suffering sigh. For Jane’s part, she sneaks a glance back over her shoulder at him as she tosses her hair imperiously, and there’s something soft in her eyes that belies the wry twist of her lips.

I feel my own eyes widen as the realisation hits me; as I take all those little details I’ve been cataloguing and follow them through to their logical conclusion.

They’re in love. Like, for real, forever, *true* love; the kind that leads from ‘once upon a time’ to ‘happily ever after.’ It’s just like me and… and Margaery.

Wow.

That’s amazing. That’s fantastic. That’s *wonderful*. I’m so very happy for them.

(And I dismiss the brief, sharp pang of something that can’t possibly be jealousy. It just can’t be. I mean, I’ve found my true love. It doesn’t matter that she’s a woman. It doesn’t matter that it can’t lead to anything in the long-term. I’ve found love, and that’s enough. It’s enough for me.)

I can’t wait to find out how they found each other.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay posting this. I'm afraid the update schedule may continue to be erratic for a little while longer, but I definitely haven't abandoned this story. Thanks for bearing with me.

It doesn’t take long for us to get my bags stowed and get under way. By the time we’re thoroughly enmeshed in the city-centre’s stutter-stop one-way system, I’ve found out that Talisa is a medical doctor, that her father’s Italian — her family lived in Italy for a while — and that she really, *really* dislikes being cold. The last point is definitely something we can bond over. What I haven’t yet discovered, however, is the thing I want to know most of all…

“So, how did you two meet?” I blurt out, leaning forward a little in the back seat so I can look from one of them to the other. They exchange a fond look. Well, mostly fond. There’s something else there, perhaps, something almost… cautious?

“Do you want to tell it, or should I?” Rob asks.

“You start,” Talisa decides. “I’ll chip in if necessary.”

He considers for a moment, and then smiles.

“We met at the bank,” he says.

I blink. “Oh.” That’s… not quite the romantic answer I was hoping for.

Talisa makes a disgusted noise. “Take all the fun out of it, why don’t you?”

“You told me to start,” he points out. “But fine. Okay.” His gaze meets mine in the rear-view mirror, briefly, and he grins. “You know I’ve been meeting with the bank to discuss finance options for the Retreat?” I nod, wondering if that means they’re definitely going ahead with it. If so, I wonder how he finally convinced Mum. Or if he’s just decided to press on anyway… “Well, when I turned up for an appointment one day, there was a group of…” He gives Talisa a sidelong glance. “*Idiots* protesting outside it.”

Talisa rolls her eyes. “I think the words you’re looking for are ‘socially conscious individuals’. That bank is involved in some seriously unethical shenanigans. And they’re not going to stop unless someone makes them stop.”

“As I said: idiots.” She thumps him on the arm, eliciting a loud: “Ow! Not while I’m driving.”

Her eyes lighting up as if he’s just given her a gift, she swiftly retorts: “So, I should wait until afterwards?” Her voice does that *thing* again, turning low and sultry and se- and my face could abruptly put a tomato to shame. I can see it in the mirror before I look out of the window, down at my feet; anywhere but at my brother and his girlfriend. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Talisa!” Rob’s exclamation sounds a little strangled; like he can’t decide whether to be amused, horrified, or… something else. I might find it funny if I wasn’t so *very* embarrassed.

Talisa laughs; a low, musical sound. (For some reason, even though their voices are nothing alike, I find myself remembering the sound of Daenerys’ laughter. I wonder what she’s doing right now? I wonder if she got all her errands done. I hope I didn’t delay her too much.)

“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry in the slightest. Something tells me that this woman knows how to keep my brother on his toes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so discombobulated. But he somehow claws back his composure and gives her something approximating a stern look. She mimes zipping her lips closed and gestures for him to continue.

If she’s aiming for ‘demure,’ the wicked glint in her eyes rather spoils the effect. But she does remain silent and, after a moment or two — and an arched eyebrow for good measure — Rob continues with his story.

“As I was saying, I needed to get to my appointment, but these… *individuals* were cluttering up the pavement outside it, blocking the entrance. So I politely asked them to move out of the way.”

“Politely?!” Apparently Talisa’s period of silence has come to an end. She twists around in her seat so she can meet my eyes, barely containing her mirth. “You should have seen him; issuing orders left, right and centre like little Lord Fauntleroy. It was pretty obnoxious.” She lowers her voice to a stage whisper, winking at me mock-conspiratorially. “Also kind of hot. But that’s beside the point.”

“*Not* appropriate, Talisa! Really not appropriate. Sansa’s my *sister*.” Too startled to voice my own protest, I silently agree with Rob. For her part, Talisa shrugs unrepentantly.

“Then be thankful I didn’t say it to your mother.”

Oh god.

“Please don’t,” Rob says in a faint voice. If he wasn’t driving, I suspect he’d be clutching his head in his hands. As it is, he merely tightens his grip on the steering wheel a little.

“It’s not at the top of my list of things to do, don’t worry,” she says lightly.

“Oh. Good.” That doesn’t seem to reassure him all that much. He hurries on with his story as if filling the air words can head off any further embarrassing interjections. From what I’ve seen so far… I don’t rate his chances very highly. “Anyway, the protestors didn’t take kindly to being politely asked to step aside.” Talisa rolls her eyes, but forbears to comment. “Some of them objected. Loudly. Especially their erstwhile leader.” Now it’s Rob’s turn to lower his voice mock-conspiratorially. “Just between you and me, she was a real firebrand.”

I can’t help glancing over at Talisa to see what she thinks of that description. From the small smile on her lips, I think it’s fair to say she isn’t displeased.

It suddenly occurs to me to wonder how long ago this was. I mean, it can’t have been much before the start of term, and may even have been after that. Which means they can’t have been together all *that* long. And yet, if I didn’t know better, I’d think they were an old, married couple who’d spent most of their lives together.

I guess that’s what happens when you meet your true love.

(I wonder if that what’s going to happen with me and Margaery.)

“There was a little bit of back and forth,” Rob continues. “And by the time I managed to make it inside, I was running late for my appointment. Not by much, but…” He grimaces. “Honestly, though, I’m not sure if it would have made much difference if I’d been there an hour early. The meeting… didn’t go well.” That piques my interest almost enough to press for more details — to ask what that means for the Winterfell development project — but I hold my tongue. I can always ask him about it later. For now, I’m much more interested in hearing the details of *their* story. Fortunately, Rob continues without prompting. “When I came back out, I was perhaps not in the best of moods.”

“Understatement and a half,” Talisa murmurs. “I think what you meant to say is, you were so pissed off, you practically had storm clouds hovering over your head.”

“I think you’re exaggerating.”

“You might very well think that. But you’d be wrong.”

“Because yours is the unbiased voice of reason, is it?” he says, the words rich with unvoiced laughter.

Talisa grins. “Just so. Glad to see you’re admitting it at long last. Now, could I please have that in writing?”

I glance from one of them to the other, feeling not unlike a spectator at a tennis match. I haven’t really seen this side of Rob before. He seems relaxed, almost playful. For all his playacting at being haughty and offended, he actually seems to be enjoying her teasing. And, from the looks of her, I’d say the feeling’s mutual.

(I don’t think I’ve seen him so lighthearted since before Dad…)

I think Talisa must be good for him.

I think *love* must be good for him.

(I wonder if that’s why I’m so much more confident these days. True love is a powerful force indeed…)

“Anyway,” Rob says. “The protestors were still standing outside, cluttering up the pavement, and as I once more struggled to get past them, I somehow found myself stopping to give them a piece of my mind. We, ah, ended up arguing for a while.”

“It was fun,” Talisa adds. She gives Rob a sidelong glance. “Even if his assumptions *were* utterly and completely flawed.”

“It *was* fun,” he says, sounding surprised. His voice takes on a sly, mischievous note as he continues. “Even if the holes in her logic were large enough to drive a lorry through.”

“Just because you refuse to follow the steps, that doesn’t mean the conclusions are unsound.”

“Well, just because you don’t agree with an assumption, that doesn’t make it wrong.”

The silence persists for a moment or two, and it should be tense — should be positively *fraught* with tension judging by the words alone. And yet it… isn’t. This whole argument feels… fond. Familiar; like a comfortable routine. Like there’s no real bite to it.

“Let’s agree to disagree, shall we?” Talisa says, eventually.

“Don’t we always?” Rob’s tone is wry, and the two of them exchange a quick smile.

“So, what happened then?” I ask, when neither of them shows any signs of picking up the thread of the tale. Because they can’t just leave it there. That doesn’t tell me *anything*!

“To cut a long story short,” Rob begins.

“Too late!” Talisa quickly interjects.

“We argued for a while, but somewhere along the way it became more of a debate. After starting off on completely the wrong foot, I guess we managed to reach some sort of… detente?”

“That’s as good a word as any, I suppose.” There’s a sly edge to her amusement, like she and Rob are sharing some kind of secret joke. I suppose that’s what couples do, though. Isn’t it?

“So when Talisa and her activist friends decided to call it quits for the day, she invited me to join them in the pub.” He twitches his shoulders in the closest thing to a shrug he can manage while driving. “I didn’t have anywhere in particular to be right then, so I said yes.” He laughs suddenly. “Although I didn’t half feel out of place in my suit and tie.”

“You certainly stood out from the crowd,” Talisa murmurs, sounding… not displeased. No, something more than that. Appreciative? And… let’s stop that train of thought right there.

“Anyway, that’s pretty much the whole story. We exchanged contact details, kept in touch, and now here we are.”

I blink, caught a little off-guard by the abruptness of Rob’s last words. That’s it? I don’t think so. There *has* to be more to it than that. Doesn’t there?

“Which one of you called first?” I ask. “Or texted, or whatever.” All in all, I think that’s a pretty darn tactful way of asking who made the first move. I could honestly see it going either way. Rob’s never particularly been hesitant about expressing himself, but then Talisa *definitely* doesn’t seem at all backwards about coming forwards.

I don’t know which way would be more interesting.

“I don’t-“ Rob starts to say, but Talisa speaks over him, looking like she’s struggling not to simply collapse into gales of laughter.

“Rob called me,” she says. Her teeth show white against her tanned skin as she suddenly flashes me a broad, brilliant smile. “He had to,” she adds, her voice shaking a little as the laughter starts to break free. “After all, he’d left his very expensive silk tie in my bedroom.”

“Talisa!” Rob practically barks her name — well, as near to it as he can; I’m not sure it’s possible to make such a musical name sound even remotely harsh — but rather than quelling her mirth, his stern tone apparently only serves to make her laugh harder. I’m fascinated to notice that the tips of my brother’s ears are turning very, very red indeed. So he *does* blush! It’s not just me! That is certainly an interesting thing to know. But I don’t know why he’s so embarrassed about leaving his tie…

In…

Talisa’s…

Oh.

*Oh.*

Okay, now *I’m* blushing.

“What?” Talisa asks Rob unselfconsciously, apparently oblivious to the twin thermonuclear reactions that seem to be occurring in my cheeks right now. “Sansa’s a big girl. I doubt I’m going to have to break out the smelling salts. Isn’t that right, Sansa? You’re not going to swoon, are you?”

“Um, no?” Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it. Change the subject. Think about something else; *anything* else. Like, um… “I might just freeze solid, though. Rob can you turn the heating up a little, please?”

“Certainly,” he says, his own relief practically a palpable force.

“He always turns it down,” Talisa confides, pursing her lips in disapproval. “And the car had just warmed up nicely, too.”

That would explain why the temperature in here has dropped from ‘wonderfully toasty’ to ‘polar bears would call it a bit nippy’ over the course of our journey.

“It’s not that cold,” Rob mutters.

“Yes, it is!” Talisa and I both speak in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

I start to relax a little, the crisis apparently averted.

“And your house is *very* draughty,” Talisa continues, disapprovingly. “It’s not insulated at all well. I dread to think how much energy is wasted trying to heat it.”

“We are working on that, trust me,” Rob says, a hint of frustration creeping into his voice as he adds: “But it’s a very old building. Bringing it up to modern standards isn’t exactly easy. Or cheap.”

“I know you’re working hard,” Talisa says sympathetically, lightly touching his knee. “You and your mother, and all the Starks before you. And what your family has achieved is nothing short of remarkable.” She gives a lopsided smile. “Don’t mind me. I just miss having you to warm my bed.”

If I was drinking anything right now, it would have ended up decorating the pair of them.

“Talisa!” The word sounds like it emerges through gritted teeth. I sneak a glance at Rob’s face in the mirror and, sure enough, the expression on his face looks sort of… clenched. Like a fist. Like there’s a thousand and one things he wants to say, and it’s only by some herculean effort that he’s keeping them locked away behind his lips.

And… also like he doesn’t know whether to laugh, cringe or facepalm. At least, I assume that’s what it means. God only knows *I’m* certainly torn on that one right now.

But Talisa just gives him a fond — and maybe somewhat mischievous — smile, and turns to me as if confiding some secret.

“Your mother’s rule,” she tells me, sounding faintly irritated. “Apparently unmarried couples are not permitted to share a bed while under her roof. Or even a room!” She rounds on Rob again suddenly. “It’s really *most* inconvenient,” she murmurs, with a hint of reproach in her voice. Like he’s going to be able to go against Mum on this one. Even though Winterfell is, technically, *his* house now. (Although I suspect it’ll be a cold day in hell before any of us, even Rob — maybe even *especially* Rob — point that one out to mother dearest. I wince mentally just at the thought of it.)

“It’s just for a little while longer,” he says softly, and there’s something in his voice; in the look they share… There are *levels* to this conversation, and I can’t shake the feeling that they’re not just talking about the room thing.

What am I missing here?

“So it is,” Talisa says. She touches him lightly, fingers brushing over his arm like an apology, or a promise. Secrets lurk like shadows in her eyes before being banished by the brilliance of the smile she bestows on us both. “Perhaps I will stop tormenting Rob for the moment.”

“I thought that was your new hobby,” Rob says lightly, visibly relaxing at the change in subject.

“Oh, it is,” she assures him, mock-solemnly. “But I thought I’d take pity on you. It is nearly Christmas, after all.” She focuses her attention on me. “So, Sansa: tell me about yourself.”

“Me?” I really hope my eyes aren’t as wide as they feel right now. I manage to scrape together something like a light, noncommittal laugh. “There really isn’t that much to tell.”

“I don’t believe that for a moment,” she says, her voice warm enough to take any possible sting out of her words. “I’m afraid your brother has been simply terrible about answering my questions regarding his family.” Rob looks like he wants to say something but, perhaps wisely, holds his peace. “Assume I know practically nothing about you.”

“Oh, um, okay.” Naturally, that’s when my mind goes completely blank. What do I say? What should I tell her? What kind of things would she like to know? What would *I* want to know about me, if I was her?

Why is this so hard?

Apropos of nothing, I see Daenerys smiling at me, telling me that she believes in me, and I suddenly find myself sitting a little straighter in my seat. I return Talisa’s smile.

“I’m a first year student at Nottingham University,” I begin, and as I continue to tell her about myself — about my studies and my hobbies — I realise that I was wrong.

This isn’t hard at all.

 

* * * * *

 

During a natural lull in the conversation, I glance out of the window to realise with a start that we’re almost home! When did *that* happen? As we approach the turn-off onto the last public road before we get to the winding private drive-way that leads up to the main house, I find the questions bubbling up inside me until they overflow, spilling from my lips in a veritable torrent of words.

“So, how is everyone? Did Mum manage to sort out the problems with the construction company? Is Arya still practicing her fencing in ridiculous places? Did Bran decide whether or not he’s going to enter that riding competition? Has Rickon bitten anyone else since lately? What’s Jon been up to? He still hasn’t replied to my last e-mail, but I guess he must be busy. Did he bring anyone back with him for the holidays? Are Uncle Ed and Great-Uncle Blackfish here yet? How-“

“Steady on, Sansa,” Rob says, grinning. “Take a breath before you explode.”

“Sorry,” I mutter, my face heating.

He chuckles. “We’re going to be there in a few minutes. You’ll be able to see for yourself.”

“I know, but…” I sigh. “Humour me?”

“Alright,” he says, sounding fondly amused. “Let’s see…” He considers for a moment. “Everyone’s generally fine. Rickon hasn’t bitten anyone else, but he did manage to empty out a couple of cutlery drawers onto the kitchen floor before Mum caught him.”

“Oh no,” I breathe, torn between amusement at the mental image and a kind of disappointed sadness that he’s not… That he isn’t… “Did he say why he did it?” I ask, after what’s probably too long a silence, trying to pick up the thread of the conversation.

I can’t see Rob’s expression, but I can picture it clearly in my head. It’s the one we all get at some point or another when we’re talking about my youngest brother; serious to the point of being slightly stiff, lips pressed together (against the things we can’t or won’t say), eyes troubled (with maybe just the slightest hint of confused distress) and brow tense, if not quite furrowed; everything locked tight and buttoned down. (Because there’s no point frowning over something that he’s *going* to grow out of, and it’s only a big *thing* if we make it into one. He might have his problems, but that’s only normal, so *he’s* normal and…)

Rob’s shoulders twitch in another almost-shrug. I’m peripherally aware of Talisa watching the pair of us, her expression and posture the kind of calculatedly neutral you only see when you’re being studied assessed seven ways from Sunday. But then she touches Rob lightly — the briefest flutter of her long, delicate fingers over his shoulder — and I see the concern beneath her mask. Not intrusive, just there; leaving this a moment between Rob and me while letting him know that she’s there.

I can’t help but approve of the gesture; of her. Rob’s a lucky man.

He clears his throat.

“No,” he says, and it takes me a moment to recall the question that he’s answering. “But he said he’s going to keep doing it until Dad tells him to stop.”

“I thought he understood-“ I bite off the sentence before its end, unable to bring myself to say the words out loud.

That Dad’s not coming back. Not now, not ever. That he’s gone. (That he’s dead.)

“So did we,” Rob says tightly. “But I guess it still hasn’t quite taken. Mum’s working working on it, though.” Almost under his breath, the words barely audible, he continues. “We all are.”

In a moment of weakness, I let myself indulge in the luxury of disappointment; allow myself the freedom to acknowledge the mournful wail that threatens to break free every time I hear about Rickon’s latest antics.

I hoped he’d be *better*.

Despite *knowing* better than that, despite knowing all the lies Hollywood sells us for what they are, I just can’t help wishing that time and treatment have together performed some miracle of alchemy. That this latest doctor, new teaching aide, revolutionary technique, or altered dosage could just *fix* him, once and for all.

(Like he’s a broken piece of machinery that needs to be put right.)

Immediately, a hot rush of shame bubbles up inside me like lava, burning and bitter with the knowledge that I’m a terrible, terrible person.

It shouldn’t matter, I tell myself, firmly. It *doesn’t* matter. He’s my brother and I love him, no matter what problems he has. Part of me — the cockeyed optimist part of me that still believes in fairytale romance and everything working out in the end — tries to pipe up that he’s still young, that there’s still time, that diagnosis and treatment is getting better all the time. And I believe that, I do. (Despite the phrases like ‘critical development period’ and ‘neurological abnormalities’ and ‘irreversible cognitive impairment’ that flutter around my brain like ragged-winged moths.) But the rest of me knows that’s not the point.

Even if he never *does* get ‘better’, even if he has ‘problems’ for the rest of his life, even if — God forbid — his… issues… get worse…

That doesn’t make him any less my brother.

It doesn’t make him any less of a *person*.

No matter what anyone else might say.

(But is it really so bad to wish that he wasn’t in distress any more? Is it so bad to hope that he finds some kind of peace? It’s not like I want to change who he is. I just want him to be… to be happy.)

Anyway, I don’t want to think about this any more. Not right now.

“What about Bran and Arya?” I ask; a related but generally much safer subject.

Rob’s shoulders relax somewhat.

“Still causing trouble,” he says. “Yes, Arya’s still practicing her fencing in crazy places. I caught her climbing a tree with her sword the other day. A tree!” He shakes his head. “I swear that girl has no survival instinct. And Jon just encourages her…” Yet another source of conflict between Mum and Jon; I remember. “Bran finally made up his mind about the competition — he’s going to go through with it after all.” He chuckles softly. “Arya called him a chickenshit for even thinking about backing out.”

“That’s a bit mean,” I observe. Even though she’s not here to hear it, my tone is full of disapproval. I make a mental note to have a word with my darling sister about the right and wrong way to encourage someone to get back in the saddle.

Pun not intended.

“That’s Arya for you,” Rob says. “Anyway, it worked.”

“Is he going to be okay?” I wonder. “It’s his first competition since the accident…”

“He’ll be fine. It’s been a good few months since he resumed his lessons, and the physiotherapist said there was no reason why he couldn’t start competing again. It might even do him good. At the very least, maybe having a clear goal in mind will stop him sitting around and brooding quite so much.”

Rob’s tone is dismissive enough that I decide against voicing my fears aloud. Fears that maybe Bran *isn’t* ready; that the consequences of pushing ahead too soon might just be worse for him in the long run than those of waiting too long. I make another mental note, this time to take Bran aside for a quiet chat.

“What else was there?” he wonders aloud.

“Jon, your uncles and the contractors,” Talisa prompts softly.

“Oh, right. Jon’s fine, just up to his eyeballs with work at the moment. He’s hoping to carry out another field research project, which means a frantic scramble for more funding. I’m sure he’ll tell you about it. Him and his friend both.”

My eyebrows lift a little.

“Is that friend, or *friend*.” I resist the urge to make air-quotes, suddenly remembering Asha jokingly — at least, I *hope* she was only joking — threatening to break Ygritte’s fingers if she did that one more time.

Asha really doesn’t like air-quotes.

Rob laughs. “As far as I know, Sam’s just a friend. I have an inkling that *he* just isn’t Jon’s type.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds: “Although Jon might just be his…”

Maybe I’m just imagining things, maybe I’m just reading too much into his words, his tone of voice, but there’s something about the way he says that… Something that makes my stomach clench and twist, making me feel slightly nauseous in a way that has nothing to do with the way the uneven road surface makes the car rattle and bounce along.

(What would he say if he ever found out about Margaery and me? What would he think? That she’s not *my* type? That we’re not… That’s it’s not…)

(But isn’t that the same thing that I’ve been thinking since we… Since it happened? That she *isn’t* really my type? That it’s just true love trumping any and every other concern, including what should be the natural order of things?)

(Including what’s *normal*.)

(I don’t… I can’t…)

Um…

I don’t know what to say. I desperately cast about for some words of wisdom — or at least something not too idiotic — but, luckily, Talisa steps in before I can really put my foot in it.

“Rob.” Her tone is sharp, almost cutting.

“What?” He turns his head slightly, giving Talisa what I assume from his tone of voice is an injured, indignant look, before returning his eyes to the road.

“You know what.” She sounds utterly certain of her assertion, and he… doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t confirm it either, at least not in words, but I’m pretty sure his lack of further argument defaults to something like agreement.

Or it could just mean that he doesn’t want to have that conversation with his sister in the car. Either-or. In any case, he uses a technique that comes right out of the Sansa bumper book of conflict avoidance techniques: he changes the subject.

“Anyway, the contractor problems have been more or less dealt with, but there are still some ongoing issues.” I can hear the grimace in his voice as he adds. “No doubt you’ll hear all about it from Mum.”

“No doubt,” I murmur.

“Finally, both Uncle and Great-Uncle are present and correct. Well, they’re present at any rate. And they’re getting on about as well as they ever do, so *that’s* fun. Oh, and Uncle Ed has brought a girlfriend with him. A very young girlfriend.”

“Roslin’s not that young,” Talisa says. “No younger than I am, certainly.”

“But she’s *much* younger than Uncle Edmure.”

“That’s true,” she admits with a languid shrug. “But an age difference doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Plenty of May to December relationships work out just fine.”

Rob starts to say something skeptical-sounding, but then cuts himself off practically mid-word to announce: “And here we are.”

“Winterfell,” I breathe, the name feeling almost reverent upon my lips.

“Home, sweet home,” murmurs Talisa, and something about her tone seems a little off, somehow, but I can’t focus on that right now because all of my attention is taken up with one, all-encompassing thought.

I’m home.


	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to apologise for the long delay between the last chapter and this one, and for the fact that it’s a slightly shorter chapter than usual. I’m afraid there’s also likely to be a long gap before I post the next chapter. I’ve been laid low by a migraine that’s been hanging around like an unwanted guest since February, which has put a serious dent in my ability to write. However, rest assured that this story is not dead, but like dread Cthulhu, merely sleeping. I fully intend to continue with it as and when I am able. Thank you for your patience.

“Sansa! You’re here!”

Arya comes hurtling round the corner, feet skidding on the polished wooden floor of the main foyer and arms flailing every which way as she tries in vain to fight momentum. I barely have time to brace for impact before she crashes right into me. The breath whooshes out of my body with the force of the collision, and I only barely keep my feet. There’s a brief, shining moment when I feel ridiculously proud about not ending up flat on my rear, but in the next instant the pride is replaced by horror at the distinctive sound of something smashing into about a thousand pieces. Reluctantly (because it doesn’t become real until I see it with my own two eyes), I glance down to see the remains of the vase that stands — stood — on a table by the telephone nook. Sure enough, it’s now lying in pieces at my feet, the remains strewn with the dried flowers and twigs that had been arranged artistically inside it.

“Oops,” Arya says, sounding distinctly unrepentant. She cranes her neck to see the mess, then shakes her head with an exaggerated sigh as we disentangle ourselves. “Mum is going to be *so* pissed off with you.”

“What?” I stare at her, confused. “Me? But you-“

“It was your arse that hit the table, not mine,” she retorts, quick as a flash. “So you’re the one who knocked it over. Quod erat thingummy-wotsit.”

“My arse wouldn’t have hit the table if you hadn’t barrelled straight into me!” I reply, exasperated beyond all belief. “Anyway, what were you even *doing* tearing around the place in such a hurry?”

“Practicing,” she says, twitching her bony shoulders in a shrug, like it’s the most normal thing in the world and I’m some kind of freak for even questioning it. (Okay, maybe I’m reading a little too much into a single word and gesture. Maybe.) “My goal is to complete a full circuit of the house in under three minutes.” She pulls a face. “Haven’t managed anywhere near that yet, though. And I’m still having a little trouble with the turns…”

I sigh loudly, rolling my eyes at Arya’s tomfoolery.

“You’ll have someone’s eye out if you’re not careful. Knowing my luck, probably mine.” I fix her with what I hope is a suitably steely gaze. (I keep one of Daenerys’ best glares in mind as I do so. Well, maybe not one of her *very* best — I’m only irritated with my sister, not blazingly furious with her — but if you’re going to copy someone, you might as well copy from the best…) “Is this another stupid thing from your crazy fencing instructor?”

“It’s not stupid!” she protests. “And Syrio isn’t crazy, he’s brilliantly unorthodox! Movement is so important in a duel, and a sabreur has to have both speed *and* control.” She holds my glare for a moment or two, then drops her gaze and rubs her neck a little sheepishly. “Technically, he never told me to run around the house,” she mumbles, and then scowls, her voice growing louder again. “But Mum won’t let me go outside! I’m supposed to stay in here be *sociable* and *talk* to people and play stupid *games* that don’t make any sense and go on and on and *on* with no end in sight.”

The loathing in her voice intensifies on the last words, and despite myself I find my expression softening.

“Let me guess: someone got out the Monopoly board.”

She nods vigorously.

“And Game of Life. And the Trivial Pursuit set that was out of date well before I was even born. I think it might have been made sometime in the *eighties*. That’s practically prehistoric!” She makes a disgusted noise. “What the merry hell is ‘new wave’ anyway?”

“Well, that’s still no excuse to run around the house like a mad thing,” I tell her, but my heart isn’t really in it.

“You say that now,” she says darkly. “But we’ll see how you feel after you’ve been cooped up in here for a day or two.”

I shake my head wordlessly, carefully stepping around the mess at my feet as I finish taking off the coat I was halfway through unbuttoning when Arya ran into me. The wicked points on some of those shards make me glad I hadn’t gotten around to taking off my boots yet. We’ll have to clear it up before someone hurts themselves…

The sound of the front door opening pulls me from my thoughts, and I look up in time to see Rob stop dead in his tracks, his smile replaced by surprise.

“What happened here?” he asks. Talisa follows after him, her expression full of lively curiosity.

“What is it? What’s- Oh my word.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then Arya points at me and yells: “She did it!” With that, she’s off and running again. We stare after her, and then as if by some unspoken consensus, turn to look at the disaster area on the floor.

“She ran into me,” I explain, the words emerging somewhat more plaintively than I intended.

“Figured as much,” Rob sighs. He closes the door and crosses the entryway to set the rest of my bags down out of the way.

“Where would I find a dustpan and brush?” Talisa asks, surveying the scene of devastation with an assessing air.

“There should be one in the cupboard under the stairs,” I say. “But you don’t have to-“

“Nonsense,” she says, her hand already on the doorknob as she turns to smile over her shoulder at me. “I don’t mind pitching in. Many hands make light work, and all that.”

“Oh.” I find myself returning her smile. “Well, thank you.”

Between the three of us — okay, mainly the two of us, although Rob does at least make an effort — it doesn’t take that long at all. Naturally, though, Mum materialises before we’ve quite finished.

“Welcome home, Sansa,” she says. “Arya said you were-“ And… there it is: the moment she realises that she’s interrupted our attempt to dispose of the evidence. “Oh no. What happened?”

“I knocked the vase over,” I find myself saying, unable to quite bring myself to land Arya in hot water. Maybe a couple of years ago I would’ve done — heck, maybe even a few months ago — but… not right now. She *so* owes me, though. “Sorry.”

“That was part of a matching set,” Mum says, sighing quietly to herself before continuing in a brisk tone. “But accidents happen, I suppose. None of you cut yourselves, did you?”

“No, we’re fine,” Talisa says.

“Good.” Despite acknowledging Talisa’s reply, Mum doesn’t actually look at her, instead focusing her attention squarely on me. “Just be more careful in future,” she tells me, the admonishment softened somewhat by her smile. She holds out her arms. “Now come here and give your old mum a hug.”

We embrace loosely, briskly, as is our way; barely even touching before we release each other once more. Out of the pair of them, Dad was always the hugger. I think he corrupted Mum into it, but she never seems entirely comfortable with it. I… used to be. Back before I developed an aversion to physical contact. (Back before Joffrey.) But I think I may be getting over that. I guess it helps that, as I said to Rob earlier, so many of my new friends seem to be the physically demonstrative type.

“You look well,” Mum says, looking me up and down. “I’m glad to see you’re neither wasting away nor subsisting purely on junk food.”

“Mum!” I say, and then stop, unable to properly articulate my indignation.

“You say that like I haven’t already put a son through university,” she says dryly, a slight smile on her lips. “I know what students are like. Let me guess: you’ve also brought a bag full of dirty laundry home for me to do.”

“I wasn’t *that* bad,” Rob mutters, sounding put upon.

“No, actually,” I say triumphantly, trying to ignore the way Talisa leans in close to Rob and whispers something in his ear that makes him fix her with a mock-stern look. “I made sure I did it all before I left.”

Mum laughs and starts to say something else, but is interrupted by another voice from the other end of the hallway.

“Hello Sansa.” Jon steps into view around the staircase. His expression is reserved to the point of unreadability, as is often his way, but I fancy that his composure seems a little strained around the edges. I start to wonder what’s wrong, and then I remember Mum’s words. ‘A son’ though university. Not ‘two sons.’ I wonder if he heard that. (I wonder if it stings to be reminded that he’s not my mother’s son.) I wonder if it bothers him.

Even if it does, I doubt it’s something he’ll admit to.

“Hi Jon.” The tension makes me overshoot slightly from the cheery tone I was aiming for, and I wince internally at the way I sound positively wired to the gills. “How are you?” I continue, in a slightly more normal tone.

“I’m fine, thanks. How about you? How was your journey?”

“Oh, fine. It was fine, I mean. And I’m fine, too. Glad to be home for the holidays!”

Something flickers over his features, then. Not quite a wince, but definitely something. I have the sinking feeling that I just managed to put my foot squarely in my mouth. Luckily, Mum breaks the awkward movement by saying briskly:

“Rob, Jon: why don’t the two of you take Sansa’s bags up to her room?” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “Since she seems to have packed all of her worldly possessions in there.”

“I haven’t brought that much stuff with me.,” I mutter.

“It certainly feels like everything but the kitchen sink,” Rob says, grinning. “Here, Jon, you try lifting that.”

Jon obliges, then shoots me an amused look. “I see what you mean,” he murmurs. The traitor.

Talisa laughs. “What a performance,” she says, nudging me companionably. “Oscar-worthy, don’t you think?”

“Totally,” I agree, rolling my eyes as the pair of them make a great show of hefting my *totally* not over-stuffed luggage up the stairs. “Wimps!” I call after them. Judging by the laughter, they seem thoroughly unfazed by it.

(I’m happy that Jon has relaxed out of his stiff tenseness. Rob always was able to bring him out of his more closed-off moods. I’m glad to see that hasn’t changed. I’ll have to have a quiet talk with him at some point; see if there’s anything wrong aside from a brief bout of foot-in-mouth from Mum and me.)

“Take your boots off and come and have a hot drink and a sit down,” Mum says. “You can tell me all about Nottingham.”

“That would be lovely,” I say, with feeling. I think I’m just about starting to recover feeling in my fingers and toes, but a hot drink sounds pretty much like heaven right about now. And even though I’ve already told my Mum all about my life as a student (well, everything I’m planning on telling her), phone conversations just aren’t the same as chatting in person. It’ll be nice to catch up. “I’ll make the drinks.”

“No, you can just sit down and relax. Besides, I would’ve thought you’d be tired of making drinks for other people by now.”

“It’s not so bad,” I say, and then grin at her. “But I won’t object if you want to wait on me.”

“Cheeky,” she admonishes, amusement in the the glint of her eyes and the slight quirk of her lips. “I’m not making you a fancy coffee, though. We have plenty of instant, or I suppose I could break out the cafetière if you really want.”

“Tea’s fine,” I say. It’s what she’ll be having, anyway. I swear she goes through gallons of the stuff. I rarely think to make it for myself, but I find myself unexpectedly nostalgic for the taste of a proper Yorkshire brew.

“What about you, Talisa?” she asks. “Would you like a hot drink?”

It might be only in my imagination that the animation fades from Mum’s face to leave nothing but a kind of frost-edged, brittle politeness in its place. Just as I might be imagining the slight hesitation before Talisa replies.

“Do you have any peppermint tea?”

“I’ll check, but I don’t believe we have. How about coffee?”

“Oh, ordinary tea is fine, thank you,” Talisa replies, perhaps a little too quickly.

“Milk? Sugar?”

“Neither. Thank you.”

Yes, the awkwardness between them might just be my imagination, but I really don’t think it is. I wonder what the problem is? I wonder if I can do anything to help…

 

* * * * *

 

I know I’m probably being rude, but I have to take a detour before joining the rest of the family — plus assorted guests — in the main living room. I just really need to see my bedroom. I don’t know why it’s so urgent, but by the time I’ve finished my tea, the faint urge becomes almost a compulsion.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little. But it won’t take long, and if I don’t pop up now, then it’ll probably be hours before I can make my escape. Mum really is serious about us all spending some ‘quality time’ together. In the same room. No TV (Rickon), texting (Bran), hiding behind a book (me, Jon; actually, pretty much any of us at one time or another), or otherwise not engaging socially with the people in the room. No running off to find a quiet corner to hide in. Or, in Arya’s case, to try some Errol Flynn-worthy feat like swinging from a chandelier.

No, this gathering is about family and close friends. And attendance definitely isn’t optional.

I smile inwardly as I remember Arya’s disgust with the whole idea. She’ll cope, I’m sure. It’s not like she won’t have other opportunities to slope off on her own and ‘practice’, or whatever. The big question is: will *I* cope?

I’m sure it’ll be fine. I’m sure *I’ll* be fine. I just need a moment or two to myself first. And I really would like to check on my bedroom to make sure all is as it should be. I mean, I’m sure it’s fine, but I still want to see it for myself.

So: two birds, one stone.

I excuse myself with a simple: “I’ll see you in there,” making a dash for the stairs without waiting for a reply. Alright, not a dash, per se; more of a brisk, but dignified walk. In any event, a few moments later I’m standing in my bedroom. As I expected, it looks pretty much the same as it did when I last saw it, way back in September.

Wow.

I can’t believe it’s only been three months. It feels like it’s been so much longer. (It feels like a lifetime.) And yet, in some ways, it feels like it’s been hardly any time at all. It’s so easy to fall back into old routines; old habits. I can feel the shadow of my old self wrapping itself around me like a well-worn cloak. Comfortably familiar, yes, but also oddly… constraining? I’m glad to be home. I am. But even in this short time, I can’t help but be acutely aware of how much I’ve changed.

Suddenly overwhelmed by it all, I close the door behind me and flop down heavily on my bed, letting out a sigh that seems to have its roots somewhere down by my toes. It feels good, like the tension is draining out of me with the expelled air, so I do it again. As I inhale, I savour the faint scent of lavender wafting out from the pomander tied to my headboard. Maybe it’s a bit old-fashioned — maybe an AirWick or Glade or something would be more efficient — but it suits me just fine. I guess I’m just an old-fashioned girl at heart.

I must remember to thank Mum for refilling it.

I lay there for a few moments, eyes half-closed, thinking about nothing in particular and just letting my mind wander where it will. Completely out of the blue, I suddenly find myself wondering what Daenerys is doing right now. Maybe I’ll send her a quick text… After all, if I don’t do it now, it’s going to be another few hours, and she did ask me to let her know I got here okay. I can’t believe I didn’t remember that until now — how awful of me. I send her a short message. Since I have my phone out, I also text Margaery. (Something I really should be doing more often if we… If I… I’m a terrible… whatever it is we are to each other.) Which reminds me…

I pull out my sewing chest, hunting through it for… Ah! There it is. Yes, that’ll do nicely. And it shouldn’t take me too much longer to finish her present, assuming I don’t have to spend all my time being sociable. I just hope she likes it!

I wonder if she’s actually going to make it up here this holiday? As terrible a person as it probably makes me, the thought of it leaves me feeling oddly… conflicted. On the one hand, it’ll be great to see her again, (even if we can’t…) even if it’s not the same as it was in Nottingham. Even if we can’t be *together* together. (Not that we really are *together*. Or are we? And not that we really have to be. I mean, it’s more than enough for me to have felt this way; to have found someone I can feel this way about. It doesn’t have to be anything more than that.) But I’m worried that… What if someone figures out that we…? What if we do something, or say something, to give it away?

I don’t even want to think about what will happen if any of them find out — if my *mother* finds out — that Margaery and I spent the night together. (Let alone that she’s my one true love.) If she does come to visit, I’ll have to make sure she knows we can’t… That she keeps certain things quiet. That’s all there is to it. And now I just can’t think about this any more. I can’t. There’s no point in worrying about it before it happens. I mean, she might not even come up.

My phone beeps at me, making me jump. I check the display and break into a smile. How is it that Daenerys always manages to know what to say to cheer me up? Even if she can’t possibly know that I needed it. I guess that’s the magic of friendship for you. My phone beeps again as I’m tapping out a quick reply: Margaery. I send my message to Daenerys and check to see what my… what she has to say.

Oh. Um.

Is she saying that…? Does she really mean…?

It seems to have gotten warmer in here all of a sudden.

What on earth am I supposed to say to that?

And… and… and… ‘Love and kisses?’ Does that mean…? Is she saying…? Should I…?

I dither for a while, hesitantly tapping out a word or two before deleting them again, staring blindly at my phone as if I can find some shred of insight in its depths. Unfortunately, there’s nothing like that to be had. In the end, all I can do is parrot back Margaery’s closing words to me. ‘Love and kisses.’

That’s okay, isn’t it? After all: she said it first.

I wait a couple of minutes, but no further texts seem forthcoming, so I deliberately switch off the ringer and shove my phone in my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind, right? Well, no; not really. But, on the plus side, I seem to be over my brief fit of family gathering-induced nerves. Certainly, by the time I should be thinking about heading downstairs again, the thought is accompanied by anticipation rather than dread.

That’s a good thing, right?

I gather up all my confusion and conflicted feelings as best as I can and shove them down as far as I can, way down into the depths of my mind where I don’t have to think about them. There’ll be time to worry about it later. Now, I have to focus on other things. Like the fact that it doesn’t matter how much I have or haven’t changed. Winterfell is still my home and my family are still my family. I’m sure I’ll settle in again soon enough and it’ll be just like I never went away.

And that’s probably for the best.

(And if I tell myself that enough times, maybe I’ll even believe it.)


End file.
